


Blind Faith

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Archery, Archery Bros, Avengers Family, Avengers Feels, BAMF Clint Barton, Blind Clint Barton, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop Friendship, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Feels, Clint Has Issues, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint whump, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Avengers, Fix-It, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hawkeye&Hawkeye, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Kate Bishop is amazing!, Kate and Natasha friendship, M/M, Protective Avengers, Protective Kate Bishop, Whump, lucky - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6359527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint is blinded after a mission gone wrong, the team tracks down the mysterious Kate - a relic from Clint’s childhood that they hadn’t even known was real - in the hopes that she can help him through it. No one expected her to be sassier than Tony, or to make terrible, ridiculous jokes that force even Natasha to crack a smile, but that’s exactly what she does, slowly chipping away at Clint’s insecurities in an effort to help him find a little faith - in himself and in the men and women who love him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was love at first sight the day he met Kate Bishop. 

Not the kind of love that Thomas and Miss Ruby had, the quiet kind that had already lasted forever and was safe no matter what, not the gross kind that Barney talked about and fell in and out of like Clint climbed trees, kissing a different girl behind the tents after every show. No, this was different - softer, brighter, shinier, and he didn’t understand it, but it happened and he found out fast that there was nothing he could do to make it stop. 

He was fifteen and she was seven the day her parents picked him up from the hospital. Five weeks, five weeks he’d been strapped to a bed and stuck full of needles recovering from the broken ankle and the knife to the gut he’d taken, courtesy of his brother and the Swordsman. A social worker had been in a few times to break up the monotony, trying to drag all the information out of him that she could, but in the end she’d gotten fed up, left with nothing but his name and bitter taste in her mouth. 

Clint got more. 

He got _two_ names. 

Derek and Eleanor Bishop; his new foster parents. Good family, well-off, one young daughter, but it wasn’t hard to read between the lines, not with Clint’s eyes. He could see their divorce coming from a mile away, from the moment the two of them stepped into the hospital room. They orbited each other the way magnets did when you pressed their same-sides together, pushing back and keeping each other away. Rich too, the snobby kind of rich that wouldn’t have been caught dead at the circus, or in a public hospital for that matter. They’d both been dressed in all white, gold jewelry chunky and heavy on their wrists and fingers, assistants with phones and palm pilots in their hands fluttering around in a frenzy, and by the time they ushered Clint out the front doors he was expecting the news cameras. 

Double-duty then - a last ditch effort to keep the couple together and a publicity stunt to show off their charitable natures. What better way than to take in the poor, deaf, orphan boy who’d been found bleeding out in the mud under the railroad tracks the night the gypsy circus pulled out of town? 

Well Clint had had no intention of playing dress-up-doll for those two - he’d just end up becoming the fall guy. He wasn’t stupid, not even back then. When he didn’t miraculously fix their problems they would quickly become his fault, and then the Bishops _really_ wouldn’t want him. 

Allowing himself to be ushered into the car, he’d spent the silent ride planning his escape, a plan that involved stuffing his pockets with as many valuables as possible before taking off. It was a good plan; Clint knew how to be quiet, invisible, and he’d developed some seriously sticky fingers over the years, but it was a plan that crashed and burned before he even set foot inside the hilltop mansion the Bishops called home. 

Waiting for them on the front steps, a tiny girl with shiny black curls stood impatiently, her little arms crossed and her foot tapping as her parents climbed out of the back seat, gestured Clint out after them. She wore a purple dress that was all ribbons and frills, but her knees were scuffed and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and she was glaring at him with a heat in her eyes that set Clint back on his heels, even though he’d had a good foot and a half on her at the time. A few sharp words, a testing, half-hearted insult and Clint had been hooked, more devoted to a seven year old than any teenager would ever admit to being. 

Kate had always had a way of scaring Clint. At first it was only because he didn’t know how to be an older brother, certainly hadn’t had a great example in his own. He’d righted himself eventually, fumbled his way through until he’d figured it out and found his balance. Mostly it had consisted of giving Kate whatever her little heart desired, which, for a rich girl, was surprisingly more than he’d expected it to be. Almost entirely ignored by her parents, Clint spent countless afternoons entertaining her, whether that meant dressing up for tea parties or showing her how to catch frogs in the creek beds. He’d protected her from bullies at school and from the dullness of a life lived as a porcelain doll for her parents to show off, taught her to shoot and earned her hero-worship the day he’d ripped the bows and lace off her dress and told her that girls could fight too. 

He’d risked everything he’d had for her, his place in the Bishop household every time he taught her a curse word or put an arrow in her hand, every time he’d introduced her to a glimpse of anything outside of her prim and proper world, and she’d scared him then too, but in a different way. She looked at him like he’d hung the moon and he knew he didn’t deserve it, but that was one more thing he couldn’t change no matter how hard he tried, and so instead of being scared of _having_ Kate, he started fearing the day he would lose her. 

That day came sooner than even Clint’s pessimistic attitude had hoped for, almost two years after the Bishops took him in and just three short weeks before his eighteenth birthday. The long awaited divorce was finally happening, and just as he’ predicted, Clint became a catalyst for the Bishops’ bitter feuding. It was a pack of cigarettes that did it, something that had gone unremarked on until that day. He should have expected that to blow up in his face, but with Derek teaching him the gentleman’s study habits of cigars and bourbon nearly every night, he couldn’t have predicted the screaming, sobbing fit that Eleanor Bishop threw. Suddenly the young teenager who had been a friend and pseudo-parent to their daughter for so long became a bad influence, a young man who was too attentive to his ten year old foster sister to be appropriate. 

They shipped him off to boarding school the next day, but not before he got his chance to say goodbye to Kate. 

She’d laughed at him for it. Scolded him. Reminded him that they were both smarter than that, smarter than her parents, and he left the house on the hill with more than half a dozen ways to contact her and even more promises to keep. Joke was on the Bishops too, because two years wasn’t nearly enough to make Clint forget his roots. He disappeared himself long before they managed to check him in to Hargrove’s Academy for the Uncultured and Rude. Instead he walked into a recruiting office, faked his age, and spent the next four years in the United States Army. 

That was where he learned that cheap-trick carnie shooting skills could take a man a long way if he only applied himself - promotion to sniper, then to black ops, but like everything else in his life he flew too far too fast, got a little too close to the fire and fell when his wings caught. Set up, turned scapegoat, left for dead, Clint said sayonara to government and military law and started contracting out. Three years as a mercenary earned him a name or two and a reputation to match, a reputation that saw him being chased halfway around the world by an underground government agency with an impossible to remember name until one Phillip J Coulson and a bullet to the thigh caught up with him. 

Five years in SHIELD and two years as an Avenger, and through it all Clint never gave Kate up. Letters, presents, texting and coded messages, he saw her in person twice a year at most before SHIELD but it didn’t matter. By the time they brought Clint in and gave him a legitimate career with actual medical and weekends free she was already following in his footsteps, Hawkeye to his Hawkeye even though he’d never dreamed he’d have a protégé one day. She was good too, the finest bowman he’d ever seen even if she was like, nine years old and spoiled rotten. She whined constantly and hogged Lucky, the rescue mutt they shared custody of, but she was his and he was hers, as close to family as either of them had. 

She was… she was _his_ , and she was _safe_ , and most importantly she was _separate_. 

He didn’t tell Nat. 

He didn’t tell Phil. 

He didn’t tell anyone. 

It wasn’t for _entirely_ selfish reasons. It helped keep _her_ safe, at least in the beginning. Kept the dirt and darkness that was Hawkeye and Ronin away from her. Then he’d started buddying up with the Avengers and she’d played Hawkeye for a while so he could run around dressed like a ninja, and after that he had to admit that she could take care of herself. He saved her, she saved him, they tag-teamed a group of Russian tracksuit-vampires, but he still wasn’t ready to share, not her. She was one of the few things, one of the few, perfect things he’d managed to hold on to, and he wasn’t willing to risk that, not for anything. 

At least, not when he's conscious anyway.

**AVAVA**

“So,” Tony hummed speculatively, arms crossed as he leaned back against the wall of the large, posh medical lobby of Avengers Tower. "Who's Kate?"

"Is that really important right now?" Bruce asked wearily, rubbing a hand over his face. 

The man's skin was holding a greenish hue, a rough, greying beard starting to shadow his jaw, but he didn't look any worse than the rest of them. Stark's eyes were sunken and bruised, strangely still and far away compared to his normal, rapid-fire distraction. Steve's broad, proud shoulders were slumped, rounded with discouragement, and the typically cheerful Thor was silent and brooding in the corner of an overstuffed couch. 

And Natasha? 

Well, Natasha looked the way Phil felt. 

Natasha was panicking. 

To be fair, Phil was panicking too, but he had himself so tightly under wraps it was no surprise that no one else could tell. The fact that all of them could see the Black Widow crumbling in front of them did not speak well of the situation. 

She'd screamed when the bomb had gone off. Again, to be fair, Phil probably had too, but the concussive sound had set his head to ringing and all he had actually heard was a funny, shrieking sort of sound that had approximated Clint's name. His throat had been hoarse though, raw, and the way his heart had banged against his chest belied his own fear, a fear he still felt with the battle done and won, the team back safe and settled in the Tower. 

It had been three days since the battle, three days since Hawkeye had risked his life for one last stranger and been caught in the center of the flash bomb's blast radius. Steve had had to hold the Widow back, even as she kicked and fought against his super-soldier strength, the three of them crouched behind the remains of a crumpled, sideways bus, rubble raining down around them. Phil had managed to cover his eyes before the flash but he still hadn't been able to see ten feet in front of him, smoke and ash and fires burning, scattered amongst blocks of twisted metal and fractured concrete. When it had finally cleared, when every agent had checked in through the comms and been accounted for except the one that mattered most in that moment there was nothing left of the office high rise but a heaping tangle of smoking wreckage. 

It had taken them more than an hour to dig Clint out, even with Thor and the Hulk tossing bits of brick and mortar like children's toys. When they finally got to the bottom of what had once been a ten story building they found him bleeding and unconscious, folded into a tiny, protected pocket of air space with nothing more than a single, warped beam preventing him from being crushed under several tons of debris. Phil definitely shouted that time, hollered Clint's name as he shoved futilely at steel and concrete in an attempt to free his agent, and then it was his turn to be held back as Mjolnir cleared the ruins easily, SHIELD medics rushing in. 

He nearly collapsed when they announced Clint alive but critical, strapping his limp body to a backboard and hauling him up out of the hole they'd cleared. He got a good look as they loaded him into the helicopter – there was blood and bruising everywhere but the archer's face was the worst, one cheekbone clearly broken, burns wet and raw around his eyes and Phil nearly drew his gun on the medic who tried to keep him out of the medivac. The look on his face must have been sufficient threat because the man had immediately paled, threw up his hands and stepped aside to allow him on board. 

That night and all of the next day were a nightmare of pacing, of fear and anxiety and pleading with gods he didn't trust not to take the marksman, too busy counting the minutes and demanding updates from Stark's medical team to confront the feelings and realizations that were dawning on him all at once like being hit by a truck. Natasha knew, she must have, but she and all the rest of the Avengers were too worried about their injured teammate to notice or to care. 

When they were told that Clint was stable, that he had only suffered a moderate concussion and a few broken bones, a couple more superficial injuries they had all gone wobbly, sinking to the floor or onto couches. Settled and sleeping peacefully, they'd been allowed in to see him one at a time, and if Phil had made a few promises as he stood over the hospital bed gripping the man's hand, well, Clint wasn't telling was he. He left the room with loose knees and shaky hands, but he felt ten times lighter having seen his agent alive and resting with his own eyes. From the looks on the rest of the Avengers' faces, they felt the same. 

Their relief didn't last. 

Less than four hours after passing out on top of the sheets, Phil was awakened by Jarvis raising the alarm. Panic flooded through him and he made it down to the hospital wing in record time, meeting Natasha at the doors. He'd been expecting the worse, fearing it, his heart racing with the prospect of the doctor's having missed something, of Clint having died of a slow bleed or internal trauma. 

He'd never been so right and wrong in his life. 

Clint was very much alive, but the doctors had certainly missed something. 

It had taken the combined power of the Black Widow, SHIELD senior agent Phillip Coulson, three attendants, and a needleful of sedative to get Clint down. He knocked out two more nurses and decked a doctor before they managed it. Panicked, chest heaving, he fought against the restraints they strapped him down with until the sedative began to drag him under, teeth clenched tightly shut and eyes roving blankly. 

Hawkeye was completely blind. 

Completely deaf too, which was their current problem. 

Having lost what little hearing he had left and entirely without his eyesight, Clint had shut down hard, fists clenched and muscles quivering as he sat silent in his restraints for two whole days, obviously unsure of where he was and falling back on SHIELD protocol. He wasn't going to talk, wasn't going to give anything away until he knew where he was and who he was with, if he was safe. Unfortunately Phil and the team found themselves entirely unable to communicate with the archer, who couldn't see or hear and who wouldn't open his damned hands for anything if he were being touched. He fought the doctors, fought any physical contact, which meant that not only were they unable to reassure the man, they were also unable to assess his condition. 

Two days, two days since Clint had woken up blind and they still hadn't figured out a way to let Clint know that he was home in the Tower, that he was safe. As safe as he could be anyway, because even when he wasn't doped up Clint seemed to be wavering in and out of consciousness, face going slack and body weaving as he mumbled Kate's name over and over again without rhyme or reason. There was clearly something wrong but the med staff refused to drag him in for a scan while he was like this, afraid of doing more harm than good. The blindness coupled with the concussion and the broken cheekbone said Clint had taken one to the head that had done a little more than rattle his brain, but with every attempt to touch the man resulting in violent flailing and swinging fists, there was little they could do to help. 

Phil was getting desperate too, which was probably the only reason he was willing to take Stark's advice. 

"Actually Stark's genius may be showing there," he said, drawing startled looks from more than one of the Avengers. "Kate's important, at least to Clint. Maybe she can help." 

"You're grasping at straws," Stark accused, clearly upset and unsettled by Phil's indirect praise. 

"Can you blame me?" he asked lightly. "If none of us have ever heard of a Kate..." 

"Then she's not likely to be SHIELD," Natasha concluded. "Civilian?" 

"What, like birdie's got a personal life?" Stark asked. "How's an ex-girlfriend gonna help?" 

"She might not," Phil allowed. "But I'm out of ideas, so unless someone else has a suggestion..." 

Blank, somber faces all around. 

"Alright then. Let's find Kate."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Kate's playback song would definitely be a rotation of NSYNC's greatest hits...

The mysterious Kate proved far easier to find than Phil expected. He'd envisioned a half-frantic ransacking of Clint's bunk six floors down in search of a little black book, or a day spent waiting anxiously while Stark cross-referenced every phone call Clint had ever made, but in the end all it took was a simple scroll through his contact list. 

Natasha managed to retrieve the archer's StarkPhone relatively easily, though she wouldn't say where she'd gotten it from. After unlocking the screen with a rapid one-two-three-four tap she handed it off to Phil, who took it with some trepidation. The thing was scuffed and battered, the corner of the screen cracked despite the protective case, printed specially with a stylized purple arrow. He'd seen Clint naked, drugged, sick, and exhausted, had dragged him unconscious from burning buildings and on one memorable occasion had been wrist deep inside the other man's body as he held his guts inside his abdomen, but somehow this felt like a breach of trust, searching for something Clint had obviously kept secret. 

Phil's heart twinged painfully in his chest at the thought of that, the thought that maybe Clint's trust in him, in their team wasn't so comprehensive as he'd thought. He sometimes still suspected that the man hadn't quite shaken all the ghosts of his past, that he was still plagued by feelings of worthlessness and self-derision, and now he wondered exactly what it was that had kept him from sharing Kate with him, who this woman could be that he'd never spoken her name when he so freely over-shared in most other aspects of his life. 

His concern only intensified when he finally opened the phonebook app and found only six names there; himself, Natasha, Stark, Steve, and Bruce. Thor didn't have a phone, and the only other number, all the way at the bottom, was listed under the name _Katie Kat_. A quick scan by Stark confirmed that the number belonged to a Katherine Bishop, the area code to California, but that wasn't exactly solid proof of anything, not really enough to reveal an agent's status, medical or otherwise. 

Well rules be damned, he wasn't waiting any longer. 

He could only hope it wasn't a coincidence. 

As the Avengers watched with tense expressions, Phil put the phone on speaker and held it near his chin, one arm crossed over his chest and supporting the other elbow. It didn't ring, instead blasted some punchy boy band music for what felt like a full minute before the call finally clicked and connected. 

"Hey dorkface, what the heck!" a young voice demanded playfully. "You were supposed to call me two days ago!" 

Blinking in surprise at the cheerful, intimate greeting, Phil licked his lips and centered himself, drew a deep breath. 

"Is this Miss Bishop?" he asked, keeping his flat, disinterested accountant's tone in a stranglehold so that his heart didn't come bounding up out of his chest on a high-pitched plea. 

A moment's pause followed, heavy and full of sudden wariness before she replied, all buoyancy and ease evaporated like it had never been there. 

"Where's Clint?" 

Direct wasn't she? 

"Miss Bishop, my name is..." 

"I know who you are," she interrupted, smooth and firm and sharp, surprising the entire team with both her tone and her information. "But you didn't answer my question, Agent Coulson." 

So she did know who he was. 

That knowledge settled into the pit of Phil's stomach like a weight, surprising him with its intensity. What did that mean that she knew him, that Clint had told her his name and his title? In the moment he found he didn't care so much what he'd told her about SHIELD or about the Avengers, but he did wonder... 

It was a silly thought, meaningless curiosity and he ruthlessly shook it off. Beside him Natasha shifted minutely, cast him a questioning glance and he knew that she was right – this was the point where he should really stop talking and send a team to investigate this woman who knew things she shouldn't – but he also knew that for the moment Clint was strapped to a bed just a few yards away, blind, deaf, and electively dumb in what was no doubt a quietly contained panic, waiting for the worst. 

If there was ever a situation that necessitated taking a chance and breaking protocol, this was likely it. 

"Agent Barton has been seriously injured and is currently being kept sedated in the intensive care unit of a secure facility," he said in a rush. 

"So why are you calling me?" she demanded, effectively cutting him off as her fear suddenly became palpable through the phone. "Oh god, how serious is serious? I mean you're not gonna be handing me a flag are you, cause I don't..." 

"Miss Bishop please," Phil jumped in, fighting against her infectious worry and only a little relieved that he could give her some small good news. "Agent Barton is stable and in no danger of dying, but he is in serious condition and we've... had some trouble treating him." 

"Clint hates hospitals." 

It was the whispered fear of a little girl, and across from him Phil saw Stark swallow, saw Steve's eyes soften. 

"He's been asking for you," he said quietly, suddenly realizing what this call must sound like from the other end of the connection, that he didn't even know how old this person was that he was delivering a message to. "Normally I wouldn't make this offer to a civilian, but given the circumstances I can have a plane ticket waiting for you at the nearest airport." 

A choked little snort echoed down the line and Phil cocked an eyebrow, saw the Avengers trade looks. 

"Yeah, how about you just come pick me up," she countered, this time high and tight but battling for nonchalance. "Gotham Archery on Fifth. I'll be waiting out front." 

Half a second later the call disconnected and Phil found himself staring dumbly at the phone in his hand, dark and inactive. Stark's hand came into view and snatched it away, began tapping agitatedly at the screen. 

"She's less than six blocks away," Natasha frowned, tilting her head in thought. "I do not like this." 

"Why?" Bruce asked between deep, measured breaths. "She seemed worried enough about Clint, and it sounds like she's willing to help. That was what we wanted." 

"Yes," Phil acknowledged, "But we don't know anything about her and she evidently knows about us." 

"If she's a friend of Clint's it makes sense that he would've talked to her about us," Steve pointed out. 

"We're friends of Clint's and he didn't talk to us about her," Natasha countered, and only Phil knew her well enough to hear the snap, the confusion and the thin edge of hurt buried deep in her voice. "Besides, she's a civilian. SHIELD doesn't allow for disclosure to civilians." 

"Clint's not SHIELD anymore," Steve said sternly. "Neither are you or Agent Coulson. You're Avengers. You're a part of _this_ team." 

It was an old argument, unfortunate tension that still existed within the group and while Phil understood the Captain's point it wasn't the time for internal politics. 

"It doesn't matter," he said, feeling for the pistol riding under his suit jacket. "We've found Kate, now let's go get her."

**AVAVA**

Kate was panicking, but she thought that was fair.

In all the years she'd known Clint, no one had ever called her on his behalf; not a friend, not family - hers or his - and certainly not SHIELD. 

When a smooth, calm, competent voice she'd never heard but still recognized nonetheless came crackling through her shitty flip-phone she'd felt like she couldn't breathe. 

When Agent Coulson told her that Clint was in the hospital, she'd felt like she was going to puke. 

Honestly she still might. 

Pacing the sidewalk in front of her favorite archery range with her bow case strapped tightly to her back, she tried to count her strides, to slow her breathing down but her mind was spinning and she was kinda freaking out. Her fingers clutched tightly at the strap of the case where it crossed her chest, tickled for knock and string and fletching but she was only minutes from the Avengers Tower and didn't want to take the chance of missing her ride because she'd slipped inside to sling a few arrows. 

Instead she forced herself to stop, closed her eyes and counted through the steps that Clint had taught her so many years ago. 

_The wire tenses..._

_Back muscles tighten and lock..._

_Slow your breathing..._

_Exhale..._

_Relax your hand..._

The sound of a car pulling up to the curb knocked her out of it, the engine going quiet and multiple doors popping. Opening her eyes just in time to see the entirety of the Avengers team come piling out, Kate felt her heart stutter in her chest. Sure, these might be Clint's friends, but in the moment, without the comforting presence of her mentor, her _brother_ standing beside her, they were nothing but a group of powerful, commanding superbeings – huge and powerful men, a deadly red-headed woman – and she had never felt so intimidated in her life. 

Fighting the urge to take a step back, she swallowed hard and lifted her chin, firmed up her stance like she was facing a mark. She wondered what she must look like to them; twenty-six, pretty, a little shorter than she'd like to be, and wearing jeans and a t-shirt identical to one that Clint owned, white with a gradient target emblazoned across the chest. Not for the first time in the last twenty minutes she wished for the purple body-suit she wore when she was playing Hawkeye, filling in for Clint so he could run around dressed like a ninja. At least that would have helped her feel a little more professional, a little braver standing in front of these people she knew as superheroes, because what was she? 

Just a girl still trying to find her place in the world with a stick and a string from the paleolithic era. 

Pushing her sunglasses up her nose, she was grateful at least for that little bit of cover, unsure if she'd be able to meet any of their gazes. She'd guessed for a long time that Clint didn't talk about her much, knew that he liked to keep parts of himself separate in order to keep them safe, and now, with all of them approaching her with poorly disguised curiosity and suspicion, she realized that she'd assumed correctly. 

Still, she could do this. 

Clint had told her all about them; teased Steve Rogers and laughed at Tony Stark, respected Bruce Banner and believed in Natasha Romanov... 

Waxed poetic about Agent Phillip J Coulson, and then vehemently denied it when she called him out. 

Probably best to keep that bit quiet. 

"Hail, hail, the gang's all here," she said to herself as they drew up on the sidewalk, ringed around her in a semi-circle that felt more threatening than it had any right to given that these were the Avengers, Earth's Mightiest Heroes. 

"And hail to you fair lady, friend of the Hawk" the giant with the gorgeous hair boomed back at her, startling her with the volume of a voice so deep and smooth it seemed to rumble the pavement beneath her feet. 

"You must be Thor," she responded, certain she was right and happy enough that the words hadn't come out as a painful squeak. 

"Indeed I am Thor, crown prince of Asgard," he said, sweeping her a gallant bow. "We seek your assistance with our warrior brother." 

"Umm, right. About that..." 

Turning to Agent Coulson (and it had to be Agent Coulson right - calm, silent, great suit, strong boss-daddy vibes) she asked the question she was dreading the answer to. 

"What's wrong _exactly_? Cause I'm not a medical doctor, I don't..." 

All of them, Iron Man and Captain America, the Widow and the Hulk, even Thor, everyone but Agent Coulson shifted on their feet, traded glances, frowned, and crap that wasn't good was it? 

"Agent Barton was caught in a building collapse," he said carefully, watching her like he expected her to burst into tears. "He's lost his hearing..." 

"Clint's always been deaf," she argued, immediately rolling her lips and shutting up again when Agent Coulson frowned and narrowed his eyes in response. 

"He's lost what was _left_ of his hearing," the man corrected, "And he's also lost his sight." 

Woah. 

Ok, so she was pretty sure she blacked out for a second there. 

His... his _sight_ , that... 

That couldn't be right, wasn't... who was Clint if he wasn't Hawkeye, how was he... 

Suddenly Coulson's words from the phone came driving through Kate's panicked, tilt-a-whirl thoughts – Clint was stable but sedated, in medical but they couldn't treat him... He must be terrified, unsure of where he was and unable to trust the one thing he'd always had – his eyes. 

Oh god, _Clint_... 

"Let's go." 

She surprised them, taking control like that, small as it was. Agent Coulson blinked, Tony Stark looked dumbfounded, his mouth hanging open like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure what, and Natasha Romanov actually allowed her to go sweeping past with her nose in the air without the ghost of a movement to stop her, even as she pulled the strap of her bow case over her head in order to climb into the big, black SUV they'd rolled up in. 

"I can take that for you miss," Steve said politely as she pulled open the front passenger door, reaching a hand forward as if to help her into the vehicle by relieving her of the case. 

Kate barked a laugh, short, surprised, maybe the teensiest bit hysterical. 

"I don't think so Captain," she declined, shaking her head. "Clint would kill me. ' _My bow is a part of me – I don't hand it off to anyone I wouldn't let hold my heart in their hands_.' You'll just have to suffer through me sitting here with an unstrung, unloaded weapon in my lap." 

Climbing into the front seat, she closed the door, sealing her into the silence of the car. She had to squeeze her eyes shut against the sudden sting of tears, swallow hard at the lump in her throat. It was the one and only rule Clint had always followed, never broken, an adage that he'd made her repeat over and over again when he'd first started teaching her to shoot. It was a phrase that _meant_ something between the two of them, a code, a promise, and the very first time he'd let her hold his she'd burst into tears. 

Blinking rapidly, she pulled herself together just in time for the Avengers to come piling back into the car, Agent Coulson claiming the wheel and Natasha positioning herself neatly behind her, a prime position to lean forward and snap her neck if she had to. Fighting a shiver, Kate settled back and buckled herself in, listened to Thor and Tony squabble over space in the back row until Steve wedged himself between them, Bruce sighing with exasperation from his seat next to the Widow. 

"So Kate," Tony called as Agent Coulson pulled away from the curb, "How do you know Clint? He hasn't said much more than your name in his sleep, which no offense is weird, because none of us have heard of you before." 

"No offense Mr. Stark," she mimicked stiffly, staring straight ahead, "But I think I'll let Clint be the one to answer that." 

"Definitely an ex-girlfriend," the man concluded, and then Kate was giggling uncontrollably because _eww_?

Not even close. 

It made her think though, because what exactly were they expecting of her, how did they think she could help? If they couldn't treat him, his team, who she knew he trusted, Coulson, who she knew he... 

Well if he was deaf and blind he probably didn't know where he was and who was around – there was obviously a breakdown of communication there. But Clint knew her, better than he knew anyone, she was sure of it. So if she could figure out how to make him recognize her without seeing her face or hearing her voice... 

"Merge," she said suddenly, repeating the command when Coulson glanced her way with an arch look. "Merge. We need to make a stop." 

"Where?" he asked, following the direction none the less, merging left and taking an exit off one of the main roads when she pointed. 

"Bed Stuy," she replied, and she could practically feel the looks of surprise on the back of her neck. 

"What's in Bed Stuy?" Dr. Banner asked, and Kate frowned, even as Coulson quickly maneuvered the vehicle through traffic, entering the nearby neighborhood. 

"Clint's _apartment_ ," she answered, a little bit surprised and a little bit disgusted. "Jeez, I thought you guys were at least friends. How do you not... no turn left. Ok stop." 

Ignoring the abrupt, uncomfortable silence, she popped the door and jumped out, let herself in the front door with the key Clint had given her. The Avengers followed, didn't complain when they had to take five flights of stairs because the elevator was out again. She was didn't feel right letting them into Clint's space but by the time they got to his door she still hadn't thought of how to say it. She was thankful when Coulson and Natasha placed themselves in front of the open doorway, blocking the others' entrance. Stark was standing on his tiptoes trying to get a look over their heads but that was ok – they wouldn't be able to see much from there but the living room, the ratty purple couch and the targets tacked on the far wall. 

Sliding her bow case underneath the coffee table, she detoured quickly through the kitchen, rinsing the milky cereal bowls left moldering in the sink and making sure there was nothing else laying around that might cause a stink. Clint was actually pretty neat for a guy but that was mostly because he'd never really gotten used to the idea of _having_ stuff. 

It still broke her heart sometimes. 

Heading back through the living room, she ignored the eyes tracking her back and forth and stepped into the bathroom, rattled through the medicine cabinet until she found what she'd come for – a cut-crystal bottle of the jasmine and lavender perfume she always wore. She spent nearly as much time here as she did in her own apartment and left all kinds of things tucked away; her clothes in Clint's drawers, a jacket in the coat closet, her spare bow in the guest room under the bed. It was comforting, familiar, knowing things were where they should be, how they should be. 

Coming back out into the living room, she found a leather leash tucked between the couch cushions where Clint always left it. Cramming it into her back pocket, she took one last look around and snagged a purple hoody off the back of a chair, nodded to herself. 

Good enough for now – she could come back for more later if she needed to. 

Waiting for the Avengers to back out of the doorway, she pulled it shut and locked it, looked up and down the hallway before leading the party back down the stairs. 

"We stopped for perfume?" Stark asked, eyeing the bottle in her hand as he descended beside her. 

"I don't presume to tell you _your_ job Mr. Stark." 

"Clint's your job?" he scoffed. 

"No," she acknowledged, waiting for them all to pass her as they reached the bottom of the stairwell. "But I've been manipulating him since I was seven years old - I don't need a crash course." 

Turning back, she stuck her pinky fingers in her mouth and let out a piercing whistle, the high, shrieking sound echoing up the steps toward the top of the building. Stark and Banner both flinched back from the sound, then traded surprised looks with the others when a loud bark came back in response. Half a second later Lucky came bounding down the stairs, leapt at Kate's legs as he frisked around her in excitement. He must've been visiting Simone and her boys – he usually greeted her on the front steps. 

"What is _that_?" Tony demanded, staring at the scruffy, one-eyed mutt with something akin to horror. 

Leaning down, Kate clipped the leash to the dog's collar and stepped toward the vehicle. 

"A good luck charm," she answered, scrubbing her hand over his ears. "Come on buddy, let's go find Clint!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Let's see every reader review this one. I mean, that's a cool April Fools' joke right?**  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

Clint's always been deaf. 

Well, mostly always. 

Mostly deaf. 

Anyway, long enough and deaf enough that it might as well be always. 

Point is he's used to it by now, knows how to compensate, knows that he can't trust his hearing. 

He's always been able to trust his eyes. 

When he first came in to SHIELD and got tested, he wasn't surprised when the results came back better than perfect, but the numbers hadn’t meant anything to him. The only thing that had mattered at the time - maybe the only thing that had ever mattered - was that he hit what he was aiming for, that he never missed. 

Clint has a pretty damned good track record. 

As shitty as his self-esteem has always been, and still is sometimes, he's never second-guessed his shots because he knows without conscious thought that his arrows will go where he puts them, because he's just that good, because his _eyes_ are just that good. 

So when he wakes up in the dark he doesn't immediately understand what it means. 

At first he thinks he's just wobbly, his head aching and his left cheek a sunburst of pain, everything vague and hazy and he can't quite remember what happened. He blinks in an attempt to clear his vision and it doesn't help, but he realizes there's no blindfold wrapped around his head so the next thing must be that the lights are out. He settles, stills, lets himself watch his periphery for changes in color or light that he would still be able to catch in the dark, but there's nothing. Sensory deprivation then, and that's not good but he can handle it, because he knows that Coulson and the team will get him out of it eventually, that they won't leave him here. 

Then there are hands on him and that's bad, because sense dep doesn't work in groups which means it's _him_ , it's _his_ eyes, and then the panic really kicks off because he's blind and he can't see and what the hell did they do to him?!

His head pounds and his chest starts heaving as he struggles to breathe, to get a grip on the white hot fear of suddenly realizing that he's completely vulnerable, that there's nothing he can do to understand or change what's happening around him and then the hands are clamping down, tightening on his wrists and arms as he starts to pull away and he doesn't think, he just reacts, landing solid blows where he thinks his captors should be and doing his best to wrestle away from the others latching on to him like the grip and tug of quicksand.

He puts up a good fight but it can't last, not with the adrenaline quickly wearing off and the fear taking solid hold, tangling up his lungs and his brain waves and making it impossible to think, to get any air. A needle is stabbed hard into the meat his shoulder and the effects are almost instantaneous, his knees going to jelly underneath him as he's swallowed up by a wave of gently warm weight dragging him down. He's eased onto a bed and thick restraints are wrapped around him but that's ok – he's not going anywhere for now anyway. He knows better than to fight the drugs by this point in his career, knows it's better to just ride them out, take the relief where you can and save your strength. He gets fuzzy, a little too fuzzy to still be in a heart-pounding panic, but not so fuzzy that he's completely complacent. He knows how to survive a kidnapping by this point too, an interrogation, so he goes to his safe place and stays there a while, remembering hot summer afternoons with Kate when she was small, hiding in her tree house reading comic books or splashing around in the creek beds that skirted the back of the golf course the Bishop's lived above.

Usually that's enough to ground him but he's loggy this time around, his head and his cheekbone a constant, throbbing ache and he thinks he remembers a building coming down on him somehow, a support beam maybe, but he can't remember the when or where or why. He guesses he's got a concussion, what with the nausea rolling around in his stomach and the odd sense of motionless vertigo, but there's not a lot he can do about it either way. The most he can do is fist up his hands, protect the very last thing he has left and make sure he comes out of this with all ten fingers unbroken and still attached. Hands come and go and every time he jerks away, flinches from what he can't see coming, and that mostly seems to do the trick, but he can't be sure because there's another needle now, taped to his elbow and keeping a steady flow of sedatives pumping through his veins and maybe that's not the only reason but he loses track of time.

He doesn't know where he is, or how long he's been there, or how he got to that place, but he does know someone will come for him.

He believes that.

The Avengers.

Natasha.

 _Phil_.

They'll come, and they'll get him out of here, and he can't let himself think beyond that because what good is a sniper who can't see?

The solid black that surrounds him is a constant, heavy presence that he can't shake, that doesn't lessen or grow lighter as time passes, and the fear, the sheer, mind-numbing _terror_ is always there, lingering in the back of his mind.

The only reason he isn't screaming is because he's too doped up to really taste it.

**AVAVA**

She made him nervous and that was saying something.

For Phil Coulson, a man who had stood down the Black Widow, who had stood down AIM and Hydra and Hawkeye, a young woman in holy jeans and filthy sneakers and sloppy laces should be a cakewalk, shouldn't even ping on his radar. 

But as an agent of SHIELD, Phil Coulson also knew to trust his instincts, his gut, and right now his gut was telling him to keep an eye on this girl. 

He'd had to admit that she'd impressed him a little, standing up in the face of a full Avengers assembly the way she had, but that kind of thing could be read as brave, naïve, or stupid, and he wasn't sure which category she fell into just yet. 

In any case the begrudging admiration didn't last long, replaced instead with strange, hot, squirming feelings in the pit of his stomach when she'd refused to relinquish her bow to the Captain, when words had come out of her mouth that were so like Clint's Phil's jaw had almost hit the ground. Then she had commandeered the SUV, driven them into Bed Stuy while making them all feel properly chastised for not knowing something about Clint as simple as the fact that he had an apartment there. 

In a strange way she had taken full charge of the situation, and that didn't sit well with Phil. 

Oh he knew how to share, knew how to play nice – you didn't make it to Level 7 if you didn't – but he was a leader through and through, more so of Strike Team Delta than even the Avengers, and because it was Clint... 

Well it didn't help. 

The whole thing rubbed him the wrong way – the way she'd laughed when Stark accused her of being an ex-girlfriend, the way she knew them, all of them well enough that she could stand up to Steve, didn't flinch in the face of Natasha's icy stare. She had a good glare of her own truth be told; she'd stopped all of them in their tracks at the doorway of the run-down apartment she claimed was Clint's. He had no doubt she would have sent them right back out again with an arrow in the ass if they'd tried to pass through the doorway, and the time constraints an extra hospital visit would cause was the one and only reason he'd stood in the way keeping Stark out. 

Now they were riding back to the hospital and she was completely silent, her eyes scanning the road like an Army lookout as she scratched at the ears of the pathetic looking mutt at her feet. 

Might be a good idea – Phil was sure that Clint had never had an abduction or torture experience that involved a canine in any way. If the animal helped relax him just enough that they could get some kind of word in edgewise it would be worth the hair and the scent of wet dog that would no doubt linger in the car for weeks to come. 

As they pulled up in front of headquarters and Phil handed the car off to one of Stark's valets to be returned to the parking bay, the girl, Kate called the dog down out of the van and slipped her arms into the purple zip-up she'd grabbed. It wasn't hers, that much was obvious – it hung on her like a rain poncho and she had to shove the sleeves up to her elbows to free her hands, which meant that it must be Clint's. It put an odd feeling in the hollow of his chest knowing that she was wearing the archer's clothes, without his permission even, that she took that much propriety over him when Phil had never even heard of her before. 

He almost said something, almost opened his mouth to let god know's what come flooding out, but then she was spritzing her neck and her chest and her wrists with perfume, sending up a veritable cloud of a light, floral scent that he very nearly choked on. 

"Yikes lady," Stark coughed exaggeratedly into his fist. "There's showers here if you're that worried about what Barton will think you smell like." 

Phil expected a nasty comment, a sharp comeback, but Kate just raised a calm, sardonic eyebrow. 

"Says the man with more shoes in his closet and more product in his hair than either of the two women present?" she asked sweetly, and a second of shocked silence passed before Tony burst out laughing. 

"Yeah, you're definitely Clint's type," he snickered, holding the door for the group as the stepped into the lobby. 

"Really not," Kate mumbled, and Phil frowned, sure her gaze had flicked in his direction as her cheeks pinked up in a blush. 

"You are strangely oblivious for a genius Stark," Natasha said, her words thickening with the Russian accents she saved for special occasions. "But then this seems to be a common ailment among American men." 

"Amen," Kate muttered, and this time Natasha smirked. 

"Yes, I think you and I shall be good friends one day," she said, surprising all of them. 

"Clint says I'm not allowed," Kate replied simply, without any of the concern such a statement warranted. "Something about you and me and Pepper Potts, world domination, male insecurity, blah, blah, blah... I stopped paying attention." 

Crowding into the elevator, the short ride up to the Avengers' personal med bay gave them all a few minutes to consider the girl's words, the strange life-long relationship she claimed to have with the archer they all called friend. It was unsettling, how calm she seemed to be, how easily she was slotting herself in among them, almost like she had always been there, and Phil made sure that he was the first one out of the elevator. Striding forward, he caught Dr. Cochran's eye and waved him over, halted their progress in the lobby instead of leading them straight in to Clint. 

"Any change?" he asked as the man stepped in close, eyed the dog sitting quietly at the girl's feet. 

"No," the man frowned, shaking his head. "We've started cutting back on the sedative – we can't keep him down indefinitely. He's more aware, more responsive, but it's all more of the same. No noticeable improvement in either his hearing or his sight, and he's still reactive to any physical contact." 

"No luck communicating with him then." 

"No. I'm sorry Agent Coulson, my staff are doing the best we can, but you know your agents' training better than we do..." 

"That's all right," Phil nodded, feeling rather numb. "I understand the difficulties you're working with. If he's allowed visitors, we have someone here we think he may recognize." 

"Um, of course," the man said hesitantly, looking first at Lucky and then at Stark, who waved him off. "Yes of course, right this way." 

Kate didn't reply, didn’t wait for Phil's gesture sweeping him forward, instead clicking her tongue at the dog beside her and setting off after the doctor, squaring her shoulders like she was about to face a firing squad. Watching her walk away, short, slender, her hair up in a messy bun, Phil suddenly realized just how young she was, again struck as he had been on the phone by how this must seem from her point of view. 

If she had known Clint as long as she claimed, if they were as close as they were beginning to seem... well it was like learning your loved one had been in an accident; a parent, a sibling, a cousin. It was like walking into a hospital and waiting for the doctor to give you the worst, but she had just stood up to it without quaking, taken it all on the chin from these strange people she had only ever heard stories about. She couldn't be more than twenty-five, twenty-six, and Phil would have expected tears, but there were none. 

She was strong. 

He had to admire her a bit for that, had to appreciate the fact that she had dropped everything for Clint and come at a moment's notice, prepared to do everything she possibly could. 

He wouldn't forget that. 

Quickening his pace, he caught up to her and the doctor just as they pulled back the curtain surrounding Clint's hospital bed, revealing the archer strapped up in a sitting position, his face bruised and his eyes shut, his hands still in tight fists at his sides. It was liked time had stopped for the archer – nothing had changed. There was still dried blood on his face that they hadn't been able to clean away, black and purple spidering out across his cheekbone, and there was tension written into all the lines of his body that showed through the heavy, protective leather of his suit. 

In front of him Kate made a small, wounded sound, her hand going to her mouth for the space of a second, then those thin, narrow shoulders squared a second time and she leaned down, grabbed onto the collar of the dog who was now dancing with excitement, stamping its feet and wagging its entire rear end as it made short, happy, woofing sounds as it lunged at the end of its leash. 

"Lucky, go see Clint," she cheered quietly, her voice tight and strained, and then she unclipped the leash and in a single bound the animal had crossed the floor and gone sailing up onto the bed, landing in Clint's lap with a heavy thump. 

"Hey what the hell?!" the archer yelped, jerking hard and leaning back and away from the long, eager tongue slobbering all over his face, and at first Phil thought to pull the dog away just a little, but those were the first words Clint had uttered since this whole thing had started, and it was so good to hear his voice again, a little surprised, a little annoyed, that he once again found himself stuck to the floor. 

Luckily enough the dog seemed to have had enough of giving the archer a tongue bath and settled instead for getting as close as he could, which turned out to be much closer than Phil had expected for a dog of his size. Ducking his head, he pushed against Clint's chest, rubbed along his front and flopped across his lap, his tail beating happily against the man's shoulder all the while. 

Clint's eye were open now, his chin tipped down as he was rocked by the dog's weight, and there was sheer confusion on his face, but then his lower lip wobbled and something in him seemed to crack. 

"Lucky?" 

At the sound of his name the dog yipped happily and leapt up to slurp at Clint's chin and neck, and Kate too seemed to come unglued from the floor, stepping up to the side of the bed without hesitation. As she approached his side Clint seemed to sense her move, closed his eyes and tipped his head up, breathed deep, and that was when Phil got it, when he finally understood. 

"Kate?" 

Her name came out like a whimper, broken and so full of painful hope that Phil felt his heart squeeze in his chest. She immediately came in close, tapped him twice on the inside of his wrist, and then, before he could stop her, she was unbuckling the restraints that held Clint's arms at his sides. 

"Kate?" he asked again, just as quietly and fearfully as the last time, and she repeated the tapping motion, then lifted Clint's hand to her cheek and nodded. The confirmation wrenched a broken sob out of the blinded archer, and he immediately surged forward, grabbing her up in his arms and dragging her in against his chest, burying his face in her hair. 

"I can't see. Katie, I can't see!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review me please!


	4. Chapter 4

Surprisingly enough it was Stark who had the tact to shepherd the rest of the Avengers from the room, to shoo away the medical staff while Clint had a complete and utter breakdown in his hospital bed. The genius had tried to drag Nat and Phil with him as he left, but one icy look from the Black Widow had been more than enough to convince him he'd done his share of the work and send him on his way. For the next twenty minutes the two SHIELD agents could do nothing but stand and watch helplessly as their archer, their teammate, their _friend_ fell apart in some strange girl's arms, sobbing and shaking and begging for something none of them could give him. 

She handled it well. She didn't try to stop him, didn't try to shush him, just cocked one hip against the side of the bed and let him hold on as tightly as he needed too, slowly stroking his hair and keeping his head tucked beneath her chin. Then, when Clint eventually ran out of steam, she gently urged him to sit up and scoot over, hiked herself all the way up onto the mattress and stretched her legs out beside him, let him lean against her shoulder to shoulder as the dog, Lucky, flopped across their knees with his head in his master's lap. Fisting one hand in the loose fur of the canine's thick ruff, Clint took a shaky, shuddering breath and turned his hand over onto Kate's thigh, palm up, waiting. 

"Tell me where we are?" he asked, "Please?" 

It was hardly more than an unsteady whisper, but there was more pain and fear and vulnerability in his voice than Phil had ever heard before and it cut him down to the quick. 

Kate didn't seem to notice, or at least she ignored it. 

Placing her hand on top of Clint's, her fingers slowly began to twist and curve into complicated shapes, but Phil only counted three before Clint interrupted. 

"Hospital?" he guessed, and Kate repeated the double tap to his inner wrist that she had used before. "At the Tower?" 

Two more. 

A strange sense of jealousy suddenly bubbled up in Phil's chest, nasty and white-hot as he realized exactly what Kate was doing. He'd known that Clint was fluent in American Sign Language, and he'd gone out of his way to learn himself in those first three years or so that the archer had been with SHIELD, still angry and suspicious and unwilling to accept the high-tech aids they'd tried to provide him with. In the two days previous that they had been unable to communicate with Clint he had suggested that they try just that, try letting him feel the letters against his cheek or in his hands the way Kate was doing now, but it had turned out to be an inviable option. Clint had either been too sedated to recognize the symbols or he had been on lockdown, his hands fisted resolutely to protect his fingers and his mind too far away to be reached, reacting violently and automatically to any touch at all. 

Cochran had been in the right when he'd mentioned Clint's training - all SHIELD agents knew how to dissociate, how to escape the pain and sensory input when necessary to protect themselves. 

He couldn't blame Clint, and yes, Phil did wonder when it had stopped being Barton and started being Clint, even in his own head. Didn't seem fair that it happened now, not to either of them, not when Phil had come so close to losing him, and when - for Clint at least - the world had essentially stopped. 

It reminded him of deathbed confessions, but he couldn't really blame Kate either. 

Didn't mean he didn't want to. 

"Stand down Coulson," Natasha murmured beside him, taking note of his posture, the stiffness in his spine and the suggestion of a sneer tugging at the edges of his mouth. "There is a reason it didn't work for you, and a reason it is working for her." 

"He needed someone to snap him out of it first," he acknowledged. "I know." 

"Clever to bring her in," Natasha said, smirking when Phil bristled and glared, irritated by the mollification. "She's foreign enough to make him realize that something was different, that he was not being held for ransom or torture." 

"But familiar enough to make him realize he's safe," he countered, embarrassed by the tone of his voice, the petulance in his words. 

"This is what we wanted, yes?" 

He was saved the humiliation of acknowledging her point when Clint suddenly said his name, an aching question, looked up to find Kate staring at him warily while Clint's blank gaze roamed, his free hand reaching out hesitantly. 

What could he do but go where he was beckoned? 

Approaching slowly, carefully, he caught Clint's outstretched hand in his own and squeezed, let go again immediately when the archer began to paw at him almost frantically, followed Phil's arm up to his shoulder and across to grab his tie and follow it down, letting the silk slip through his fingers. 

"Got myself into trouble this time, huh boss?" he asked, and it was wobbly and shaky and vulnerable, not at all what he was expecting. 

No, he'd been expecting cocky, brash, the jokester in the face of tragedy now that he'd gotten past the sheer, mind-numbing panic. 

It caused his heart to seize in his chest, and he had no idea how to answer Clint's question, how to quiet his fear in the face of that. Oh, he knew the letters, the symbols, how to twist and turn his fingers, but none of them seemed like enough and so he did what felt right in the moment, reached out and threaded his fingers softly through Clint's filthy, matted hair, curled his fingers around the back of his head and pulled him gently against his side when Clint leaned heavily into his touch. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Clint turned his face into Phil's chest, heaved a shuddery sob, trembled under Phil's hands. 

"I can't see," he breathed, and Phil tightened his grip, swallowed against the rock in his throat. "Coulson I can't _see_." 

On Clint's other side, Kate watched them closely, let Clint squeeze her hand as tightly as he needed to and squeezed right back. 

"Is it comin' back?" he pleaded, and by now Natasha had fetched the doctor in closer and was standing at the end of the bed, listening with a solemn expression as the man spoke quietly in her ear. "Will I get it back? Don't care about my ears - never did work – but I can't..." 

"We need to run some tests," Cochran interrupted carefully, clipboard in hand. "We need to assess his concussion, and some brain imaging will tell us more about the vision loss. Until then, there's not much I can tell you that I haven't already." 

Coulson nodded, took his hand away from where it was still cradling the base of Clint's skull, but Kate's fingers were already moving in the archer's palm, slow and steady. 

"Head hurts," Clint said abruptly, clearly in response to her prompt. "Like a building came down on it - remember that much. S' constant, like it's in a vice, but it's throbbing too. Feels like I split my damn skull. Six... s,seven on a ten-scale." 

Phil felt a chill run down his spine. 

Clint never admitted to pain, fought going to medical with everything he had, and he absolutely hated the Likert scale used to rate his discomfort. If he was offering it up voluntarily, willingly upping his number... 

Things could be much worse than he thought. 

"Couldn't hear a damned thing," the man continued. "No ringing, no buzz... But I think I've got a little coming back. Not sure, it's quiet, barely there. I don't have my aids but I think there's... muffling? Like what you hear when you dry your hair with a towel." 

Pausing, he scoffed a bitter laugh. 

"Could be compensating though," he admitted. "Faking it. Losing my futzing m..." Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard, clenched his jaw. "I can't see. No color, no light, no anything. Just black." 

It took a minute for him to collect himself, and every other person in the room seemed to recognize that, to respect it. They stood quietly, waited, somehow managed not to stare, while Clint took his hands back from Kate and Phil and focused on stroking the dog in his lap, running his palms over pale chocolate fur. 

"Nauseas," he said roughly, clearing his throat, sitting up a little straighter. "Kinda... dizzy. Like my balance is shot. Rest of me's a little banged up, nothing too bad. S' just my head." 

"Good," Cochran nodded, and Kate's fingers moved again. "That's good. Agent Coulson, I have my team on standby; we're prepared to do the CT scan and the MRI immediately, if Agent Barton is ready." 

"I doubt any of us are ready," Phil muttered under his breath, but Kate was staring at Clint's face and turning letters in his palm and whatever she said or asked got a slow, careful nod, hesitant so that Clint didn't jar anything. 

"Come on Luck," he said quietly, pushing the dog off his lap and down toward the end of the bed. "Katie-Cat's been feeding you pizza again huh? You're getting fat buddy." 

Phil frowned and Natasha quirked an eyebrow at this strange little change of topic, the lightness of Clint's tone, but Kate was looking at him like she was finally about to crack and start crying, eyes wet and wide in her pale face. 

"Be nice to Pizza Dog," she said aloud, her fingers flying in Clint's hand, and Phil wondered if the man was even able to keep up with her, to recognize a sign before she moved on to the next one, or if he was just catching the general drift of what she was signing and making the leap from there. 

"I _am_ nice to Pizza Dog," Clint said under his breath, turning slowly and carefully lowering his legs over the side of the bed when Kate hopped out of the way, threading their fingers together and holding tight. "I'm so damn nice it ain't funny." 

Lower lip wobbling, she didn't bother with the double wrist tap this time, instead bringing Clint's hand to her face, waiting until he cupped her cheek in his palm to nod her head. Huffing a hard breath through his nose, a sound Phil recognized from times when Clint was struggling to control his pain, to keep quiet, the archer drew Kate in closer, pressed their foreheads together, and Phil was ashamed to say that hot, venomous jealousy bit at his insides at the sight of them, at the sight of the single tear rolling down Clint's cheek, all but drowning out his gratitude. 

Who _was_ Kate Bishop anyway? 

Letting her go, Clint carefully worked himself upright, one hand tight in Kate's and the other gripping the edge of the bed so hard his knuckles went white. It took a minute for him to find his balance, to get steady on his feet, but he seemed to realize he'd have to let go eventually and he did, his free hand going out in front of him awkwardly, a buffer between him and all the things he couldn't see coming. 

"All right Hawkeye, lead on" he said, attempting his casual, jokester's tone, and Natasha's eyes snapped to meet Phil's so fast it was almost alarming, but beyond a dull, distant sort of surprise and confusion, Phil couldn't bring himself to care. 

He already had a Hawkeye, and right now, that one needed his undivided attention. 

"Boss?" 

It was still wobbly, plaintive, as close to a whimper as a man like Clint Barton could get to, and Phil nearly vaulted over the bed to get to his side, to slide his hand down Clint's forearm and catch his hand tight. Maybe it was projection, or maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see, but he thought Clint's shoulders dropped just a little, let go of some of the tension when he twined his fingers with Phil's and clung on hard. It was more than enough to get him to refocus, to forget the uncharacteristic panic fluttering around in his stomach and the desire to kick Kate to the curb. Clint needed him, needed all the help he could get, even if that help came in the form of a young, mysterious, pretty girl who was far too close to his asset, and right there in that moment, staring at Clint's pale, bruised, bloody face, eyes that were wide and blank and bright with fear, Phil realized that he couldn't deny it anymore. 

He loved his goofy, insecure, deadly, remarkable archer, and whoever this Kate was, she was just going to have to go find her own. He was going to do everything in his power, call in every favor he was owed to get his agent's vision back, and when he did, he was going to make sure that the first thing Clint Barton saw was the truth on Phil Coulson's face.

**AVAVA**

He loved him.

Holy shit. 

He actually loved him. 

Watching Phil Coulson guide Clint carefully through the hospital, get him settled into the giant metal tube that would scan his brain, it was all Kate could do not to roll her eyes. Didn't seem quite fair when Clint was in no shape to defend himself, when senior SHIELD agent and official Avengers Liason Phillip J. Coulson didn't even know her but honestly. 

All those years listening to Clint wax poetic about his handler, the one with the eyes and the ass and the Captain America kink, and the man actually loved him back. 

"Idiots," she muttered, watching through the long glass window as a light began to blink and the machine enveloping Clint's upper body began to tilt and whir. 

"You can say that again." 

Biting down on a yelp, Kate flinched, squeezed her eyes shut and hopped sideways, away from the Black Widow who had crept up beside her without a sound, stood shoulder to shoulder with her in order to stare into the imaging lab. 

"I don't know what you're talking about," she denied automatically, her eyes immediately going wide and panicked when she realized just what she'd said. "Um, with all due respect, Miss Widow, ma'am." 

Looking her up and down cooly, the older woman seemed to study her, judge her, see right through to her soul, but then her mouth softened just a little, not enough to be called a smile but enough to reassure Kate that she wasn't about to disappear forever. 

"You may call me Natasha, I think," she said, and Kate swallowed heavily before nodding. "I do not yet know who you are to Clint, but your loyalty to him is admirable." Turning back to the window, she watched as the MRI finished its cycle and slowed to a stop. "Of course it would mean more if he weren't so damn obvious." 

"And oblivious," Kate muttered, her muscles relaxing as she too turned back to the window. Everything Clint had ever said about Natasha told her that the two of them could be friends, that the spy would actually _like_ Kate if she got to know her, and he'd made it painfully clear that she too enjoyed teasing Clint about the crush he so vehemently denied. "I mean seriously, how do they not _know_?" 

"They refuse to look because they are afraid of what they might see," the redhead replied sagely, and Kate tilted her head, conceded the point. 

That sounded like Clint all right. 

"But we must be fair," Natasha determined, folding her arms over her chest. "No one else seems to see it either. You impress me." 

Kate blushed, ducked her head under what she knew to be a heavy compliment. 

"Clint talks," she said. "It's not exactly a secret." 

"No, but you have only just met Phil Coulson. You see it in him too." 

"How couldn't I?" Kate snorted, and Natasha raised an eyebrow in her direction, waited patiently through Kate's silence. 

"He looks at him like he's worth something," she finally explained, her voice gone soft and a little melancholy. "Even now, when he's..." 

Reassurance would have been nice in that moment, even some cheap platitude about how Tony Stark's facilities and professionals were the best in the world, but she knew the Widow better than that, even if it was second hand, and so when she got no such reply she brushed it off, cleared her throat and straightened her spine. 

"Anyway," she shrugged, "If that didn't give it away the green eyes would – he looks at me like he wants to fold me into a foot locker and keep me there every time I touch Clint." 

Looking beyond the shiny, high-tech machines, she watched as the agent paced the length of the control room, hovered over the lab techs' shoulders in order to stare at the output no doubt scrolling across the computer screens. 

"Believe it or not, jealousy is actually a good look on Coulson," Natasha allowed. "Myself I would like to see more of it." 

"Easy for you to say," Kate grumbled. "You're not the one he's going to ship off to some deserted island, never to be seen again." 

Blinking, Natasha stared for the beat of a full second and Kate wondered if she said something wrong, but then the Widow, the infamous Black Widow was actually laughing. It was soft, subtle, musical, but she was laughing and offering Kate a look that might actually _be_ a real smile, and that was almost more terrifying than an actual threat would be. 

"Do not worry маленькая птица," she said, her smile turning sharp and sly, and nope, Kate was wrong, the threat was worse. "I will look out for you. You are here to help our Hawkeye after all, and as you see, he needs all the help he can get."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Don't you guys just love Kate?!**
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> **Review me please!**
> 
> маленькая птица - little bird


	5. Chapter 5

The news wasn't good. 

He'd thought he'd been braced for that, but the look on Clint's face when Cochran had sat them down to discuss... 

He hadn't realized eyes that were so blank and blind could look so devastated. 

He did his best to hold himself together. The nice part about having access to Stark's hospital meant the best of both machinery and human specialists, which cut back on the wait time significantly. Under Phil's diligent eye they had begun assessing Clint's MRI and CT scans even before the machines has stopped whirling, and by the time they'd fetched Clint out of the metal tube and gotten him settled back in a hospital bed with an IV full of god knows what in his arm, they were only about twenty minutes short of presenting their results. That short, intermittent time had seemed to stretch on forever but Clint's resolve seemed to have firmed a bit, certainly from his panicked breakdown earlier. 

He sat quietly, staring straight ahead with all his sniper's patience, stillness. The only thing that gave him away was the tight, rock hard set of his jaw and the way his fingers knotted around Kate's. He was nearly silent while Kate translated the doctors' words into his palm, speaking only to guess at sentences and shorten her words. It was all said in a flat, empty tone, one that didn't do anything to relieve the growing sense of unease in Phil's own chest, but there was nothing he could do to change the doctors' verdict. 

As far as his hearing went, Clint had been at about forty percent before the building had come down on him. The tests showed that now he was hovering somewhere between ten and fifteen. That being said, he seemed to be slowly gaining it back, and the scans showed little damage to the part of his brain that was responsible for interpreting sound. Cochran seemed confident that over the next few days he would come back up to where he'd previously been, and he gave Clint the go-ahead to wear his aids. The man started to suggest cochlear implants, no doubt to improve his hearing if his sight never came back, but a sharp look from Phil had shut him up quickly on the subject. 

Clint seemed rather detached from that bit of news, didn't really react to it, and while Phil was sure that later he would come to appreciate the return of his hearing, it was understandable that in the moment there had been more pressing issues on the archer's mind. The steel beam that had saved Clint from being crushed under the rubble had done some damage first, clubbing him in the back of the head right over his occipital lobe, the part of his brain that handled visual processing. A simple physical assessment had found a good sized knot on the back of his skull, and the scans had shown significant bruising where his brain had been rattled around. 

All in all he was rather lucky – with the length of time he'd been caught unconscious under the wreckage and then later untreated in the hospital, he could've suffered a lot worse. 

Somehow that seemed cold comfort, even to Phil's rather more objective ears. 

They wouldn't give him a percentage. He asked, lots of times, lots of different ways, but they didn't want to make a prediction, give him a ballpark likelihood, and while frustrating and frightening, Phil understood that. Traumatic brain injuries were tricky – he'd seen a slight tap turn a man of steel and muscled into a man of mashed potatoes, and seen another topple three stories to land headfirst on the concrete below, only to get right back up again no worse for wear except for one hell of a goose egg. 

He didn't think his anecdotes would help either, so instead he checked with Cochran, had a nurse unhook Clint from his IV's, and offered to run him through the hospital showers. 

"Oh thank god," Kate heaved, her voice tight and her fingers quick in Clint's palm. "Thought I was gonna have to do it, and we had a deal." 

"Oh hah hah," Clint deadpanned, even as Coulson cocked an eyebrow in confusion. "Like that was my fault. I was the one getting groped." 

He sounded a little shaky, a little tight just like Kate, but there was something about the two of them trying to joke together that felt ok, even now. 

Even if that sounded like a story that Phil probably didn't want to hear. 

"Maybe," Kate conceded, still out loud and apparently for his benefit. "But I was the one who was traumatized. There are some things that can never be un-felt Barton." 

Ok, now he was sure he didn't want to hear. 

Loudly clearing his throat, Phil stepped forward, touched Clint lightly on the wrist and hated how he flinched away before relaxing again. Carefully guiding him off the bed, he let Clint cling to his forearm, fingers tight enough to hurt as he took him across the floor to the ensuite bathroom. 

Another perk of living with Tony Stark – the oft needed hospital rooms were equipped for extended stays; couches, opulent baths, room service, the works. 

It only made it a little easier when you were the one on the sidelines, watching the ones you cared about, the ones you... the ones you _loved_ get hurt. 

Shit. 

Leaving Clint balanced with one hip against the sink, Phil got the shower started and adjusted the temperature, warmer than he knew the archer preferred but there was no way he was sticking him into a barely-lukewarm spray. He made sure shampoo and shower gel were within easy reach before turning around, only to find his asset staring already stripped out of his filthy tac suit, left in nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs and staring resolutely at the floor as he twisted the hem of his undershirt in his hands. 

Well, he said _stared_... 

It shouldn't have punched the air out of him the way it did. 

He'd seen Clint naked before and vice versa; hard to be body-shy in an organization like SHIELD. Neither of them had anything to be ashamed of in that department, and when you were so used to treating your body like a tool, a weapon, it killed a lot of the intimacy shared nudity created. 

Not that there was anything much more intimate the half-desperate mouth-to-mouth, or being wrist deep inside someone else's body holding their guts in place while you waited for a medivac, but still... 

Clint was gorgeous. 

Even battered and bloody and smudged with sweat and ashes, even with broad, amazing shoulders sloped in something horribly like defeat. 

Even like this. 

Reaching out, he wrapped his knuckles against the sink so that Clint would feel the vibration, a warning or maybe an entreaty. Either way it worked – the man finally stopped mangling his shirt and held out his hand, palm up, waiting for the words. 

_STAY_ , he signed, and then drew a question mark on Clint's palm. 

Clint squeezed his eyes shut, didn't respond, then finally swallowed and shook his head. 

"Just... don't go far?" He asked, and it was too close to pleading for comfort. "Please?" 

_PROMISE_ , Phil tapped into his palm, and Clint let out a quavery sigh, tugged his shirt over his head and stepped toward the shower. His hands swung out in front of him a wide arcs until he found the wall and followed it, and Phil knew that Clint had a bit of an eidetic memory, but none of that stopped him from holding on too long, for sliding his fingertips down the man's forearm in guidance until he was sure he'd gotten where he needed to go safely. 

Leaving the door well ajar, he stepped back out into the main bit of the hospital room and collapsed onto the couch, stripping out of his suit jacket and kicking off his shoes. Normally his suit was like armor and he was more comfortable wearing them than anything else, but today he was exhausted, and didn't want anything but a pair of sweats and a thin, worn-out t-shirt, a pair of thick socks. A weakness maybe, a desire to be coddled or cuddled, but he couldn't bring himself to care. 

Couldn't bring himself to care either that Kate seemed to have disappeared, along with Clint's one-eyed mutt and the Black Widow. 

It should be more of an issue, given her civilian status, but considering the circumstances Phil decided right now she wasn't his problem. 

Let Stark find her – it was his tower after all. 

Leaning back against the plush couch cushions, Phil nearly dozed off when a sound like a whimper had him rocketing up again. 

"Clint?" he called, standing up and then figuratively smacking himself because obviously the archer couldn't hear him. "Shit." 

Pushing back into the bathroom, his heart cracked at the sight that greeted him. 

Clint was sitting with his back to the wall, his knees hugged tightly to his chest, and even the cascade of the shower beating down on him couldn't mask the tears streaming down his face. He was doing his best not to make a sound, that much was clear, rocking minutely back and forth but he wasn't doing a very good job, and by the time Phil found himself kneeling on the hard tile, wrapping his arms around the archer and pulling him in tight to his chest, Clint was full out sobbing. 

It was just as bad this time around as it had been the first time with Kate, if not a little worse. It was wracking and shuddering and snotty, all kinds of undignified and it didn't even register with Phil, whose silk tie and good slacks were getting waterlogged and whose joints ached from his position on the floor. None of that mattered in the moment and it wouldn't later, but he did wonder if somehow subconsciously, Clint had seen this coming, had hoped for it, because he'd kept his boxers on and that spoke to painful vulnerability. 

Wouldn't have mattered to him – he'd be here anyway, right here, holding Clint as tightly as he could as though he were the only thing keeping the archer together. 

He was doing a poor job of it. 

Clint didn't complain, didn't shout or rant or rail, just sobbed, and that felt like defeat too, like he'd already given up, and that was what scared Phil the most. 

Carding his hand through Clint's wet hair, an action he'd already gotten terribly, awfully comfortable with in the last few hours, Phil let him go until he couldn't anymore, until he caught his breath and wiped the water off his face, cleared his throat and got to his feet, suddenly gruff and shrugging and brushing it off, all apologies. He couldn't think of what else to do but let the man alone again, climb out of the shower and wring himself out a bit while the man finished rinsing off. There were towels and scrubs in the cabinets and Phil availed himself of a full set, drying quickly and getting dressed so that he could find a pair large enough for Clint. 

Took a bit of doing, but in a hospital that occasionally saw Steve Rogers come through, there were inevitably some that would fit the archer's shoulders. 

"Still here?" 

Turning around, Phil found Clint waiting with his palm up, looking young and unsure. Without the water running it was suddenly terribly quiet in the little bathroom, and Phil had to clear his throat before he reached out to meet him. Handing him the towel, he took Clint by the wrist and guided him toward the sink, both for balance and to put his hand atop the stack of cottony nurse-wear he'd left out. 

_I'LL BE OUTSIDE_ , he spelled painstakingly, ignoring the way Clint's hand felt wrapped around his own, skin damp and warm and rough as he followed the signs with strong, agile fingers. 

"Right," Clint nodded, and for a second Phil thought he would ask him to stay, but no such question was forthcoming. 

Turning to step back out, he almost missed Clint's murmur of shamed gratitude. 

"Thanks boss." 

Blowing out a heavy breath, Phil walked back out into the main room and sat the couch, dropping his head into his hands. He felt cold and pale and shaky, and if the looks on Natasha and Kates' faces when he lifted his head again were anything to go by, he didn't appear much better off. 

"What happened in _there_?" Kate asked, arching an eyebrow and eyeing his change of dress. 

Phil just shook his head. 

He didn't owe her anything (except he did) and honestly, he wasn't even sure himself. 

It was enough for Natasha, who knew him and who knew Clint, but clearly not enough for Kate. Opening her mouth, no doubt to have another go, he was saved the inconvenience when Clint reemerged, fully dressed but still a little wobbly, his hair sticking up in all directions and trickling water down his neck where he'd been careful not to jar his head drying it. 

Kate, once again showing remarkable calm and intelligence for a civilian, and a young one at that, stomped her foot hard on the tile floor, and Clint's head twitched in her direction. 

"Katie?" he asked, breathing deep, and if he focused Phil could pick out the floral scent of her perfume too, less overpowering now but still identifiable over the hospital-stink of lemon and antiseptic. 

Clint held out a hand and the girl came forward without hesitation, took it and led Clint back to the bed, where she fluffed his pillow and got him settled under a thin, cotton blanket while Natasha took his other hand and reconnected the IV. Leaning down, the Black Widow touched a kiss to his cheek, pressed their forehead together while her fingers danced in Clint's palm, and there was something so intimate about it that he had to look away, went about the business of watching Kate get the dog, Lucky, up onto the bed and tucked in quietly against Clint's side from wherever he had reappeared from. 

"I just... kinda want to be alone," Clint mumbled, and Phil felt his body go cold, saw Kate freeze for just a second before unsticking herself like it had never happened. "Not going anywhere," he continued, and yes, that much was true, because Cochran wanted him to stay at least over night while they finished going over his scans and did what little they thought they could for the time being, but it still felt wrong, leaving him like this. 

Between them Strike Team Delta had never left a member behind, never left them to wake up or fall asleep alone in some strange hospital if they could help it. Short of being held for torture or in a hospital bed of their own, none of them had ever broken that promise. 

"Ok," Natasha breathed, her hand in Clint's and her face pale, lips pressed thin with displeasure. "Ok little bird." 

Leaning down she pressed another kiss to Clint's cheek, one that he very nearly turned away from, and that was more than enough to get Phil to his feet, to send the two of them in the direction of the door. 

For Kate it was clearly harder; her hands were locked around the safety bar on the side of the bed, her eyes huge and bright with unshed tears, and whatever she was she had yet to learn to keep any of her pain off her face. It took her three tries to leave him there, turned onto his side and curled up, eyes squeezed shut and hands fisted in Lucky's fur, but she finally managed it, shivering and then squaring her shoulders to walk across the floor with her head held high. 

She was following Natasha out the door, ducking under Phil's arm where he held it open when Clint called her name. 

Looking back, Phil turned just in time to see Clint raise one shaky hand and flash a familiar sign, middle fingers bent, pinky, pointer, and thumb extended, and then Kate made a small choking sound and was striding quickly away, down the hall and out into the plush little lobby where she promptly burst into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> **Not a doctor here (at least not that kind of doctor) so please excuse any inaccuracies or hinky-sounding medical procedures ;)**  
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> **Review me please!**  
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	6. Chapter 6

"Can I get a ride back to Bed Stuy?" 

It wasn't what he expected to hear, not the first words she would speak after a crying jag so silent and contained it was painful just to watch. Natasha had disappeared, leaving Phil to stand beside the girl completely awkward and unsure for the first time in his life, and he only just managed to pull himself together enough to sit beside her and place one hopefully comforting hand on her shoulder. 

After a time, with the same ruthless efficiency that Clint had shown earlier, she collected her own wits, sniffled and dried her eyes on the sleeves of Clint's hoodie before tucking her hands inside where he couldn't see them. 

"Sorry," she said, still a little breathless. "Just... had to get it out of the way, you know? Didn't want him to..." 

"You’re leaving?" he asked, quiet, non-judgmental, although there were several other things he wanted to ask in that moment and he was abruptly more than a little pissed that the girl would up and leave now. 

"I'd cab but I don't have my wallet with me," she nodded, getting to her feet and brushing imaginary lint from her knees. "I can get my own ride back in the morning." 

Softening a bit, because that was much better than Kate just walking out, Phil too got to his feet. 

"You can stay, if you'd like," he offered. "I'd... rather you did actually. We don't know each other well but I _would_ like to thank you Miss Bishop. You were very helpful today." 

Eyeing him up and down, like she knew exactly how hard that had been for Phil to say, she quirked her mouth and stuck out her hand. 

"You can call me Kate," she said, an obvious peace offering that Phil accepted. "I appreciate you calling me. I was... getting worried when I didn't hear." 

Phil nodded, remembering his own state of panic not knowing what he would find under the heap of brick and mortar that had trapped Clint for hours on end. 

"You did very well," he said warmly, and Kate pinked, bit her lip and ducked her head, made a quiet, shaky little sound that he could only categorize under hysterical laughter. 

"Doesn't feel like it," she whispered, dragging a hand through her hair, attempting to push her bangs back before giving up and retying her ponytail all together. "I know Clint's got a habit of getting himself in trouble, but this..." 

"We have the best medical team here that money can buy," he said, to reassure himself as much as her. "The best tools that Tony Stark and Bruce Banner can fabricate." 

"Yeah, that makes me feel better," she huffed, and somehow it was light enough and funny enough that Phil was smiling too. 

Might just be the emotional exhaustion, but who was he to get picky at a time like this. 

"But you _are_ welcome to stay," he said, and yes, maybe he was subtly guiding her in that direction by getting them started toward the elevators and hitting the button that would take them up instead of down, toward the exits. "There's plenty of room." 

"Might as well I guess," she shrugged, and now it was her that sounded drained. "Not like I'll sleep anyways." 

Phil made a noncommittal sound, didn't comment, because he doubted that anyone would sleep well tonight. Thinking of the others gave him pause – he had no doubt that Tony was monitoring Clint's hospital chart electronically, but the rest of the Avengers deserved an update directly from the horse's mouth. 

Any horse, really, but it with Natasha likely in the wind it seemed that that was another task that would fall to him today. 

Not that he begrudged it, regretted it. 

He'd do a hell of a lot for Clint – this was child's play compared to how far he was willing to go. 

"Jarvis, would you drop us off on the common floor please?" he asked, and the lights on the elevator panel immediately shuffled. 

"Of course Agent Coulson." 

"Hi Jarvis," Kate said beside him, her mouth curving into a big, shiny grin as she looked up toward the ceiling, a gesture that was so very much Clint it hurt. "It's nice to finally meet you. Clint's said wonderful things." 

"The pleasure is mine Miss Bishop," Jarvis replied, and unless Phil was losing his hearing too, the AI's voice was a little warmer than usual, a little surprised. "If I can be of any assistance please do not hesitate to ask." 

"Sure," she replied. "You can call me Kate, or Katie, I guess. Clint mostly calls me that though." 

"As you wish Miss Kate," Jarvis answered, and beside him the young girl blushed, hid a smile behind her hand. 

He supposed he could see what Clint saw in her; she was pretty and bright and sweet, even to strangers who were a bit rough with her, a bit cold, and to cap it all off she knew how to shoot a bow. Phil had never even tried, too embarrassed by the thought of making an absolute mess of the thing in front of the Amazing Hawkeye. He wasn't sure Clint had a type, but he could see how Kate might fit that bill. 

The thought made him a little nauseous, but before he could do anything stupid like scowl and glare at her again, the elevator doors were swinging open on the common floor, revealing half of the Avengers all lounging about in their casual-wear, draped across the furniture like they weren't waiting on news of a much-loved friend. Kate looked a little stunned to see Captain America in khakis with a sketchpad on his knees, Stark in a oil-stained wifebeater instead of a six-figure suit, Thor minus cape and hammer, but she rallied well, following Phil out of the car and into the large, open living room. 

"Natasha came through," Cap said, jerking his chin toward the hall. "She's in the kitchen with Bruce." 

Not gone then, just gone after tea, an oddly domestic little indulgence she'd picked up from Banner. 

Stark shifted on the couch, chewing his lip and drumming his fingers against his elbows where he'd folded his arms over his chest, and Phil held up a hand, staying. 

"In a minute," he promised, understanding the urgency. "I'd rather not tell this more than once." 

"Understandable," the Captain nodded, and for a second Phil just stared at him, half numb and rather more irritated with his childhood idol than he had ever been before because, no, he didn't understand. A part of it, yes, some of it yes, and god knows that Rogers had lost friends of his own, but not like this. 

Not a teammate like Strike Team Delta had had, not an asset, carefully nurtured and guided like Agent Barton had been. Not a specialist like Hawkeye, who made Phil prouder with every mission he pulled off, not a friend like Clint had become. 

Not with the way Phil loved him. 

He wondered what had shown on his face in that moment - fear, melancholy, pained want – because then Tony was clearing his throat and getting to his feet, urging the other two men in the room to theirs as well. 

"Dinner's ready anyway," he said with feigned nonchalance, heading for the kitchen. "You're in for a treat Lady Bird - Brucie Bear's making curry." 

Beside him Kate startled just a bit, but whether it was the nickname or being addressed at all he wasn't sure. She recovered well enough but she was clearly uncomfortable, at least until they had all stepped into the dining area and Natasha pointedly pulled out the chair catty-corner to her own, situating the girl at right angles to her dominant hand and easily within her reach. 

Phil narrowed his eyes, unsure if he were about to have to intervene in Natasha' Romanov's version of a cat fight, but whatever hurt she had experienced when Clint had turned away from her, she evidently did not place on Kate Bishop. 

Which was more than he could say for himself. 

Well done Coulson. 

Still, it was a surprise to see Kate go calmly to her side, sit down all ease and relaxation despite knowing who Natasha was. 

And she did know – she'd proved that much – even if it was second-hand knowing and all tainted by Clint-colored glasses. 

A surprise too, to see Natasha nearly welcome her, be nearly as warm and friendly as Natasha ever was. 

Kate's warning from earlier about Clint's fears, about her and Natasha and Pepper Potts all in a room together came echoing back on Phil's ears and he suppressed a shudder. 

If it weren't for Clint he'd be nipping that in the bud right now. 

Strategic extraction. 

There were just certain people in this world who should not be allowed to become friends. 

Speaking of... 

"...appreciate the offer if it stands," Kate tailed off, flicking a, uncertain glance his way, and he caught the look in time to tune back in to Stark's response. 

"Absolutely," Tony agreed, nodding eagerly. "Mi casa is... well, everybody's casa, basically. But seriously Lady Bird, it's the least we can do." 

"I didn't really do anything," the girl blushed, ducking her head. "I mean, I'm just his... Kate." 

This last was said with an easy shrug, like it made all the sense in the world, answered all the questions and explained all the unknowns, and if had been Clint or Nat saying it just that way Phil would have understood. The three of them together had built that kind of system, that kind of bond, where unspoken words made sense and unfinished sentences didn't have to be. 

He wondered how Clint and Kate could have built the same. 

But now the Avengers were introducing themselves one by one, giving their everyday civilian names to the girl they didn't really know, the names that meant more than their superhero monikers, and then Bruce was joining them and bowls and forks were being passed, huge pots of curry and jasmine rice and for a time things were quiet, just the clink of silverware and quiet hums and the sense of waiting, waiting... 

"It's not good." 

Well... 

Shit. 

That wasn't how he'd meant to open, so blunt, so unapologetic, and all around him things went still and quiet. 

"They're fairly confident that he'll get his hearing back, as much as he had anyway, but his eyesight... They don't know." 

"They took a CT Scan?" Bruce asked after a moment's silence, "An MRI?" 

"Both. Bruising and latent swelling to the occipital lobe where the beam came down on him – they said something about putting in a shunt to relieve what's left of the pressure, but with how much time went by before they got a look at him..." 

"The worst is already done," the doctor nodded. 

Phil went silent, unable to reply this time. 

"I'd like a look tomorrow, if Clint doesn't mind..." 

"He won't mind," Kate piped up solemnly. "He respects your work Dr. Banner. Dr. Stark's too, even if he'd never admit it." 

" _Dr._ Stark?" Tony queried, all honest confusion. "Nobody calls me that." 

"Clint's got a... _thing_ about education," Kate frowned, clearly still unsure about how much she should say in the archer's absence. "He knows how many degrees you have. He used to talk about it all the time when he was getting his Masters." 

"Birdie has a Masters?" 

"In mathematics actually," Phil cut in, unable to help a small, melancholy smile. He'd been the one to encourage that degree after Clint had worked his way through his GED and battled some mild dyslexia. "He was always good with numbers; angles, distance, velocity..." 

"Well damn." 

"He doesn't like to brag," Kate said quietly. "He's not... _prideful_." 

"Who, the World's Greatest Marksman?" Tony snickered. "Course not." 

"That's different!" Kate snapped, suddenly all crackling spitfire. "He's _Hawkeye_. He _is_ the world's greatest marksman, and he always _will be_! No one will _ever_ be able to do what he did. D,d,does." 

It was the stutter that did it, that sobered them all and brought them back to the seriousness of the thing, the painful reality. Natasha shifted subtly, no doubt pressing her foot against Kate's beneath the table, Tony's face fell a bit, the others sat quietly, and it was bigger and more silent and terrible than anything Phil had ever felt before, he was sure. 

"Right," Tony said, clearing his throat and trying for something more lighthearted. "So. Kate. Tell us about you. When did you start dating Hawkeye? Swept you off your feet at all of seven huh?" 

"Oh my god, I'm not his girlfriend!" she groaned loudly, dropping her face into her hands. "Just... ew." 

"Um, excuse you?" Stark asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Hawkeye is _hot_. Even _I_ have to admit that, and I'm a mostly heterosexual male. Sure _you're_ not the one that needs their eyes checked?" 

If he weren't so shocked, so horrified by all of the information Stark had just thrown out (and it was all far more than Phil had ever wanted to know about the man, thank you very much), he might have caught it. She muttered it in French, the one language that he'd never quite gotten the hang of, and it was all kinds of fed up and ridiculous that he could practically _hear_ the eye roll hidden behind the words. 

What's worse, Natasha had caught it, and whatever it was she'd said caused the ice-cold, deadly assassin to bark a laugh so unexpectedly that she practically choked, snorting into her teacup. 

Immediately collecting herself and obviously biting down hard on the inside of her cheek, she dabbed delicately at her mouth with a cloth napkin while the rest of the Avengers stared in awe, then rose smoothly to her feet. 

"I'm sure Jarvis will show you to Clint's quarters," she said, speaking to Kate like they'd known each other forever and were the best of friends. "But if you'd like the company, you are welcome to share my floor tonight. I am certain we will find... _ample_ things in common to discuss." 

And then she was gone, walking away on silent feet and disappearing the way she always did, leaving them all staring after her. 

"That... doesn't seem good," Kate said flatly, sounding more than a little dumbfounded. "That's not good right?" 

"I think the Black Widow just made a friend," Stark sing-songed, and the girl beside him went a bit pale. 

"Clint's gonna _kill_ me."


	7. Chapter 7

She didn't stay with Natasha that night – he was ashamed of it but he couldn't stop himself from asking Jarvis where he'd dropped her off. The AI had answered but seemed a bit stiff about it all, a bit poshly offended the way he sounded sometimes when he reported that Kate had gone to sleep in Clint's suite. Not in his bed, which made him feel a little better even though she'd assured them that she wasn't dating the archer – was nothing to say she hadn't in the past – but on the couch in his living room where Phil knew from experience she had good sightlines through the entire apartment. 

The next morning she was the third one up and around, only beat out by Natasha and Phil himself. The redhead had gone down to the gym for her early-morning workout, never one to skip gym time and even more in need of the routine, the muscle-burning ache in the face of emotional upset. Phil had gone to the communal kitchen for coffee. He'd cooked oatmeal as well with cinnamon and cream, found a bowl of fat, red strawberries, both of which he'd left out for whoever wandered in, and while he wasn't expecting the first one to be Kate, he managed to mask his emotions when she appeared in the doorway. 

She was dressed in the same clothes she'd worn the day before, jeans and a t-shirt, the purple hoodie that had to be Clint's. She was pale and her hair was damp, twisted up into a tangled bun like she'd wet it in the sink, and she was carrying a folded lump of cotton balled up beneath her arm – sweats and a shirt. All in all she looked terrible, like she'd spent a long, lonely night, crying, or perhaps praying. 

Gesturing for her to join him, to help herself, he watched surreptitiously as she moved confidently about the kitchen, taking milk from the fridge and brown sugar from the cupboards like she'd lived there for ages, not a hint of shyness or discomfort at being in a stranger's home. She assimilated easily (or otherwise she was the best bluff he had ever seen) and he couldn't help but compare that adaptability to Clint's, to look for him in her and wonder why it mattered, how it had happened. 

They ate together quietly for a while, nothing but the clink of silverware and the clunk of heavy mugs, though she looked like she was dying to ask a thousand questions. Seemed a bit unfair really, when she refused to answer any of Phil's – though so far he hadn't dared to ask most of them. By the time the coffee pot was halfway empty and Kate had washed her bowl in the sink, foregoing Stark's space-age dishwasher, she couldn't seem to stand the silence anymore. 

"So," she said, leaning back against the counter and folding her arms across her chest, eyeing him up and down. "You're Phil Coulson." 

It was an odd thing to say now, some twenty-four hours or so after they'd met, and Phil felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It made him almost desperate to know what she knew of him, why she knew his name, why Clint had told her when he hadn't mentioned a word about her to the Avengers, and he didn't like the feeling. 

"Depends on what you've heard I suppose," he replied flatly, draining the last of his coffee. 

Kate laughed. 

"Nice try Secret Agent Man," she said teasingly. "Not gonna happen. Even though I would love to see the look on your face, believe me." 

Her grin faded and she turned contemplative for a moment, and Phil was nearly overcome by the sudden urge to turn her upside down and shake her, to make the answers fall out of her pockets like so much milk money, quarters dancing on the floor. 

"But I guess that wouldn't really be fair to Clint, not when he's playing with a handicap," she shrugged abruptly, "So I guess it will have to wait." 

Phil blinked, stunned by the sudden, cavalier approach, the sharp turn-around from the girl who'd wept on his shoulder yesterday. Obviously she'd meant it when she said she'd needed to get it out of the way, set the emotions aside so she could do her job, the job that Phil and all the Avengers were asking her to do, as vague as it was. That and the fact that she was clearly keeping secrets made him nervous, made him irritable, and he found himself significantly off his balance trying to weigh what she was doing for them, what she'd _already_ done for them against his strange, personal dislike of her. 

' _Stupid_ ,' he scolded himself as he followed her toward the elevators. 

He knew exactly why he didn't like her, had finally admitted to himself yesterday that he was in love with Clint Barton and to hell with Kate Bishop in the face of that. Whoever she was to Clint, unless and until he heard it straight from the archer's mouth, he wasn't going to let her come between them. 

Not now, not after all this time and everything they'd been through, everything they meant to each other. They should have come to this a long time ago, and it hurt to think it took so much to make it happen, took Clint being _blinded_ for Phil to get his intentions sorted. 

Anyway. 

It was simple jealousy and silly, bitter envy that made him dislike her, childish petulance, but he could deal with that. 

He could be a professional, an adult. 

At least he thought he could. 

When they walked into Clint's hospital room together five minutes later, only to be greeted by an exuberant mutt and a slightly-more-collected Clint, he nearly changed his mind. 

"Hey Hawkeye," the archer called, a little melancholy and just a little too loudly, but far more steadily than yesterday. 

It should have made Phil happy, calmed him somewhat, knowing that Clint was doing at least that much better. 

Instead, the single, exclusionary greeting managed to spike his irritability right back up again. 

"How did you..." Kate began, trailing off when she realized halfway through the sentence that she was speaking out loud. 

"Ears are getting better," Clint explained, turning his head to one side and making a vague gesture toward the large, purple, over-the-ear pieces he typically wore around the Tower. "They cleared me this morning to wear my hearing aids. 'S coming back slow." 

"But I didn't say anything," she pointed out, and Clint snorted. 

"It's his Katie-Cat bark," he explained, waving his hand in their general direction, where Lucky was dancing around Kate's legs and pressing against them both, snuffling around and beating his tail against their knees. "Didn't need to." 

"Well no need to be so bitter about it," she said flippantly, "He loves you better and you know it." 

Clint huffed, quirked his mouth wryly, eyes blank and staring. 

"Maybe." 

"Anyway, speaking of," Kate said briskly, standing up from where she'd bent to pet the dog and brushing off her hands, "Your boss followed me down here so don't fall off the bed when he finally opens his mouth. Come on, say hello Agent Coulson." 

Frowning, watching as she waltzed past him and still puzzling over her choice of segue, Phil rolled his eyes. 

"Hello Agent Coulson." 

Groaning loudly, Clint flopped over onto his back, bouncing on the stack of hospital pillows behind him. 

"Oh gross," he mumbled, one arm slung across his face. "She's got you making dad jokes already." 

"Easy!" Phil scolded, quickly crossing the floor to stand beside the bed. "The last thing you need is another knock upside the head." 

"Tell me about it," Clint muttered, eyes closed, but he'd turned instinctively toward Phil's voice and he couldn't stop himself from reaching out and carding his fingers into the archer's silky blonde hair, carefully cradling the back of his skull. There was still a good-sized lump there, no doubt tender and painful, but Clint still turned minutely into his touch. 

At least for a second. 

Going full-body tense, he inhaled sharply and rolled upright again, reaching his right hand out toward Katie and using her grip to drag himself up off the opposite side of the bed when she met him. It was sharp, hot rejection in his gut and it made him flinch, but he thought he hid it well even if Kate's eyes did flick in his direction. 

"I brought you some clothes," she said, pushing the sweats she'd brought down into Clint's hand. 

"Ugh, thank god," he grumbled. "I've been stuck in these stupid scrubs since yesterday - I'm freezing!" 

Phil felt a smile tug at his mouth, huffed a laugh. Clint hated medical for a lot of reasons but the backless gowns and thin, papery scrub suits were right up near the top. He bitched constantly about how the air conditioning was always to high no matter what hospital you were in, how the scent of antiseptic and stainless steel stuck to your skin. It was good to hear those complaints again, especially after his silence yesterday. 

"Shut up," Clint muttered, grabbing the hem of his shirt and smoothly stripping out of it, making Phil's mouth go dry. "Hey, will you tell Cochran I'm checking out? I'll come back for check-in but I gotta get out of here." 

"You know he's not going to like that," he frowned. 

He didn't like it either. 

"Duh," Clint scoffed, muffled as he tried to tug a clean muscle shirt down over his head, abdominals flexing as he twisted and turned, finally popping out again when Kate jerked the shirt into place. "Why do you think I don't wanna do it? Jerk looks at me like I'm an idiot. Hate that look..." 

For a moment all three of them froze, horrified by the implications of the statement, that Clint hadn't realized, or had maybe forgotten he wouldn't actually be able to see the look on the doctor's face. 

Then Kate was making an odd, strangled sound, bursting into laughter when she couldn't hold it in anymore. 

"Clint Barton, you big dummy," she accused fondly, brushing his hair back from his face, and Phil felt his stomach tighten. 

Christ, this morning had been a rollercoaster, hadn't it? 

He was a damned mess. 

Where he was normally the definition of competency and efficiency, he'd never felt so off his balance, so unsure of himself. He knew exactly what he wanted, manned up and admitted it, and yet he'd never been so cautious about going after something. He certainly wasn't the 'guns ablazing' type, but he'd never shied from something like this. He didn't know what he was afraid of, and standing here watching Kate, seeing her take so freely all the things he wanted for himself, seeing her reach out so casually for all the touches _he_ wanted to give... 

He didn't know if he should hate her or thank her. 

"Please Coulson," Clint wheedled, staring blankly in his general direction with his lower lip jutting forward in a trembling puppy pout. 

"I'll talk to him," Phil conceded, discomfort sitting low in his belly. "But if he says he absolutely wants to keep you you're staying." 

"Yeah, course," the archer shrugged, slightly sobered by the seriousness in Phil's voice, in remembering the seriousness of his condition, and Phil wanted to kick himself for bringing it back up. "You're the boss, boss." 

"Damn right." 

Kate snorted and Phil sent her a glare as he turned toward the door, but she was too busy trying to stuff Clint into the hoodie she'd been wearing to notice. 

"Stop wiggling!" She demanded, taking his wrist and twisting his arm into the sleeve in a way that, from anyone else, would've ended with Clint pinning them to the floor. "Brought your hoodie but I couldn't find your jacket." 

"It's upstairs," Clint explained, finally getting the thing zipped halfway up his chest before he froze, bringing his sleeve to his face. "Aw sweatshirt, no! What'd you do Katie-cat? I smell like a florists." 

"You'll live, big baby," she scolded. "Here, sweats." 

"Thanks." 

Yanking the door open, Phil quickened his pace as Clint reached for the hem of his pants. He'd seen the man in varying states of undress but he wasn't sure his frazzled nerves could handle getting flashed right now, no matter how spectacular his ass was. As the door swung shut behind him, he heard Kate hiss a warning. 

"Don't you dare. He's already left."

**AVAVA**

He wants to leave and he doesn't.

It's... scary, more scary than being stuck in medical in the first place. 

It feels... too final, like the docs have done all they can so might as well go home and get used to it. 

He'll never get used to it. 

Even if he's stuck in the dark for the rest of his damned life, he'll never get used to it. 

Clint swallows, clamps down on the panic that's sour and metallic at the back of his throat, the threat of being sick. 

He feels a little bit better now, but only a little, tucked inside the protective warmth and softness of his favorite sweatshirt and a cloud of Katie's signature perfume, with Coulson standing over him. 

He's always felt safer with Coulson. 

Fatal failing maybe (probably), but there it was. 

He was totally screwed there anyways, and not the fun kind of screwed, so he might as well accept it. 

Would be the smart thing to do. 

At least with Phil he's always known where he stood. 

Thought he had anyway. 

No lie, he was kinda freaking out right now. 

Coulson must've held his head a hundred times before this; while he puked, while he bled, while he slept, while he was flying high on drugs or circling the dizzy drain of a concussion. It had always been professional, later a little exasperatedly fond – as long as he wasn't dying – and Clint had taken what he could get, never resented the fact that it had never gone any further. 

But now... 

He thought maybe he'd imagined some of the shit that had happened yesterday, not even close to being right in the head. Oh, he hadn't imagined the breakdown in the shower – that had been way too mortifying to be dreamed up, even in his wacked out skull – but the rest... 

The touches, nearly affectionate, the... the _petting_... 

He thought he'd dreamed it up. 

Just wanted it so much that the applesauce currently passing for his brain had conjured it for him, like some kind of consolation prize. 

But then this morning he'd come in and cradled Clint's head in his hand, brushed back his hair, and Clint had gone nearly boneless, had only just caught a high-pitched whine at the back of his throat as he turned into that strong, warm touch, silently begging for more, for an anchor, something to hold onto in the dark. 

Without his eyes, without his sight, Clint thought he felt something almost loving in the caress, and as that feeling registered with his system he'd gone shock-straight on the hospital bed, getting away as quickly as he could. 

Wasn't fair, not now, not like this, not when Coulson would be feeling guilty enough and responsible enough to give Clint nearly anything he asked for on a silver platter, all out of pity. 

Clint wouldn't manipulate him like that. 

Maybe Stark – that was an idea – but not Phil. 

Fully dressed, nearly immune to Katie's teasing by now after all these years, he let her stand between his knees and hold him, his forehead pressed against her throat as she gently carded her fingers through his hair. It wasn't the same (and thank god for that) but it was still nice, knowing she was here, this girl he trusted, this girl he loved nearly more than anyone. She was Hawkeye; he was as safe with her as if he were watching his own back - more so now, obviously - but beyond that it was nice to have someone nearby that loved him back as much as he loved them. 

Just as strongly, just as desperately, just as painfully. 

Breathing out, he lets go of the tension, lets go of the tears, lets her hold him up like she has for so many years and waits to hear whether or not he's been cleared for release, no longer sure which answer he's hoping for.


	8. Chapter 8

They let him go and he nearly has a panic attack but he manages to get it under control before they leave the med suite. He can hear Phil arguing with Cochran – barely, so they must be keeping their voices down – and a part of him doesn't want to go without his handler's explicit permission, because Phil wouldn't let him walk away if it was a bad idea, but more than anything he wants to get out of there. 

It's stupid, contradictory, but Clint's always had a habit of running from his problems, and if he wasn't sure he'd drive himself right into a wall on the first stride he'd be running now. The best he can do is hold his hand out to Katie and choke a plea, trust she'll take him somewhere safe. 

He probably shouldn't have, the brat. 

He just wants to go to his rooms, lock down his floor and lick his wounds in the dark, but she ignores his directions and takes the elevator up to the common living areas, Lucky at their heels. She scolds him while they're still in the car, even though he hasn't said anything, but she knows him well enough to know what he's thinking. 

"They're worried about you Clint," she says firmly, brooking no argument. "It's not fair, I know that, but... you've gotta try to think about them too." 

Jostling him with her shoulder, he can imagine the wry grin on her face. 

"And who knows, maybe they'll make you feel better." 

He doubts it, but he gives her the answer he wants to hear. 

"Maybe." 

"Huh," she sniffs as the doors slide open and she drags him out. "Thought they'd be here. Oh well, I'm sure they'll show up." 

Letting go of his elbow, Clint feels her glide away and he immediately throws out his hands, his balance tilting beneath him. 

"Katie!" he yelps, and once again he can feel her smirking at him. 

"Katie what?" she calls, somewhere forward and off to his left. "Breathe Clint. Use the brain in that big, blonde head of yours. You have better visual memory than anyone I've ever met, and you've lived here plenty long enough to know where the furniture is." 

Slowly the fear ebbs – it's still there of course, but not the hot, pulsing panic from before – and once he swallows his heart back down into his chest good sense returns. She's right, she is, Clint remembers nearly everything he sees exactly, and when he gets himself back under control it's easier. Slowly he turns his head left and right, pictures the edges of the room, the obstacles in his path. 

"There, you've got it," Kate says gently, and her voice is in the same place, a point of stability as the proverbial room spins. 

Behind him he hears the ping of the elevator opening again, hears someone step out, then pause, but he ignores it. He's got more important things to worry about, like not bouncing his face off a door. His hand comes up again, chest high, and he takes a tentative first step forward. 

"Do you remember Blind Man's Bluff?" Kate asks, and Clint scowls in her direction. 

"I remember you cheated," he grumps, and he hears her laugh. 

"I was eight, get over it," she commands cheerfully. "Keep going; I promise I won't crash you into a table this time." 

Scowling, Clint takes a few wobbling, wavering steps forward and heaves a sigh of relief when his hand unerringly finds the rail of the stairs, three short steps down to the lower level where the couches and armchairs are grouped up in a jumble around Stark's massive, flat screen TV. He can feel Lucky dancing around at his feet but the dog doesn't knock into him, sensing something off as he guides Clint across the floor. He knows which couch Kate's on, can see it in his head, but he trails his fingertips along the backs of the furniture anyway, counts his steps under his breath, calculates the angles in the dark. 

By the time he sits down next to her he's exhausted and shaking and covered in a sheen of cold sweat, glad for the reprieve. 

"Damn," he hears Stark exclaim, "Are you sure he can't see?" 

"Nice," Kate sniffs coldly, and there are a few rumbles and murmurs from whoever else has walked in but he's heard more than enough. 

Reaching up, he takes out his hearing aids and gives them a toss, knows they'll land in the narrow, decorative dish that collects bits and pieces on the coffee table. Grabbing the pillow from the end of the couch, he places it in Kate's lap and throws up his feet, turning onto his side so that his back is to the room as he curls up against her. It's silly and petulant but he doesn't care, he just wants... 

He doesn't know what he wants. 

But he does know that he feels better here, wrapped in his favorite hoodie with his head on Katie's lap, Katie, who's the only person in the world he can be completely and entirely vulnerable with. He doesn't have to hide how much he loves her, has nothing to prove to her. She's seen the absolute worst of him, actually knew him when he was nothing more than a mud-covered street urchin with nothing to his name but a bad attitude and a skill set to match. She's seen him poor and rough and bleeding, this pretty little rich girl raised in drawing rooms and country clubs, and she loves him right back anyway. 

Clint trembles when she threads her fingers into his hair, starts stroking it back from his forehead. Her other hand clips into his where he's tucks them against his chest and she starts to narrate what's going on around him with taps of Morse code and short hand finger-spelling. He doesn't want to know, wishes he could shut his brain off and stop analyzing the scrapes and thuds and muffled voices he can still hear, even without his aids, but she's insistent and he wants the contact more than he wants to pull away. 

Slowly the Avengers file in and she announces their presence silently, and either none of them are speaking to him or she's refusing to relay the messages. Stark is on other couch with Dr. Banner and they've got their heads together over a Stark tab, no doubt reviewing his medical files. Thor is on the floor with Lucky at his side, watching American football with the volume down low as he ruffles the mutt's fur playfully, and Steve is in the chair next to him with a sketchbook on his knees, pretending not to stare. Natasha, well, she's not pretending at all. She's out-and-out staring, and Kate's ok with that as long as she's looking at Clint, but when the spy's gaze turns in her own direction she gets nervous. 

Her fingers chatter in Clint's palm – the Widow's offered her tentative friendship but she's not sure it's not a trick, especially after what Clint's told her. The others – _they're worried about you Clint_ – they watch and they shift anxiously in their seats, but apparently they're willing to wait him out. And Coulson, Phil – _your Handler_ – is scared. He knows, he can tell by Kate's description, even if he can sense the teasing in her words, what with the way the man leans against the wall at the top of the steps, surveys the group from a vantage point that allows him sight of them all. 

_He's staring._

_Kinda creepy actually._

_At least he's only looking at you – still not sure..._

"Talk to me," he interrupts, his voice hoarse, and all around him he can sense the others fall silent, turn to stare. "Kate please? 'S too damn quiet in here." 

A moment of silence passes before her fingers start to move against his, her words slow and clear above him as she starts to spin half a dozen stories from their childhood, their adolescence, years spent in each other's pockets even when Clint was halfway around the world. He still can't hear so well so he knows she must be speaking pretty loudly, spilling their secrets to everyone listening, but he can't bring himself to care. 

Right now, he just needs to know she's there. 

"You're not subtle," he says, nearly half an hour later, when every story she's told ends in him saving her in some silly way, taking the blame when she broke her mother's Baccarat crystal vase, buying a tux when her date ditched her less than a week before her senior prom, rappelling her down the side of a building with a fractured ankle when one of their Hawkeye escapades went south. 

Kate chuckles, rocks his head gently beneath her palm. 

"Oh, _I'm sorry_ ," she simpers, "Did you want me to tell all the ones where I saved _your_ sorry ass? Cause I can do that too. I have a list. Like that time over in Queens, when I was playing Hawkeye so you could run around dressed like a..." 

"Kate?" 

"Hmm?" 

For a minute he breathes, swallows, ignores Kate's question when she hastily, dumbfoundedly sketches it into his hand. 

_They don't know?!_

"Tell me about something else," he whispers, and he knows he's begging and he can feel her hesitancy, but he just curls up tighter, nuzzles into the pillow in her lap. "Tell me about California." 

She goes still and silent next to him and for a minute he regrets it, bringing up their biggest fight, their _only_ fight, the one time he'd really thought he'd lost her. He'd messed up that day, bad, and she'd shouted at him before she left and she'd taken his dog and she'd... she'd really gone. 

He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd stayed gone, but... 

She kept coming back. 

He didn't deserve her. 

"It was nice," she said eventually, so quietly he nearly missed it. Her voice was foggy in his ears and he couldn't quite judge her tone, but her hand started moving in his hair again and it was reassuring enough that the tension went back out of his spine. "Lot's of sun, and Pizza Dog loved the beach." 

She's quiet, thoughtful, but he can't push her, not this time. 

"I got to play PI," she continued. "I told you about Marcus and Finch?" 

"Mmhmm." 

"Found their orchids, for their wedding. They even gave me a clipping – the one in the window by the fire escape? It's was... it was nice. But... it was scary too." 

She tenses, huffs something he can't quite call a sigh. 

"Not so easy being Hawkeye without you there." 

"You're a good Hawkeye," he reassures her, even as he senses the confusion of the others as they shift uncomfortably around him. 

He blinks in the dark, huffs a bitter chuckle. 

"The _only_ Hawkeye," he amends. 

" _Hey_ ," she says sharply, and then her fingers speak the words she won't say out loud. 

_You know better than that._

Clint doesn't respond, just turns his face against her side and heaves a sigh. 

"We shouldn't have left," she ventures a moment later, carefully, voice wobbly, and Clint feels his chest get tight. " _I_ shouldn't have left. It wasn't fair, not like that. I shouldn't have..." 

" 'S ok," he mumbles, squeezing her hand, heartsick and exhausted as he closed his eyes, pretended that it made a difference. " 'M sorry too."

**AVAVA**

Phil doesn't join the rest of the Avengers as they slowly filter down to the main level, bunching up in a group with Clint and Kate at its center. Far from the usual easy sprawl, each of them are tense and tight in their own way, no one more so than the archer who's determinedly put his back to the room. Kate holds him, gently strokes his hair and discretely translates unspoken words into his palm, her eyes ranging the room as observantly as Phil's, and he'd grateful for the natural sightlines Stark's Tower affords him. From where he stands he can see them all, can see the entrances and the exits and the problem areas, all the bits and pieces of daily life lying around that could be used as a weapon, and it makes him feel marginally better. He meets Natasha's eyes once and knows she's thinking the same thing – Kate might be here to comfort Clint, but they're here to protect him.

Though, she seems to be doing an impressive job on that front as well. 

Stark had made a comment, off the cuff and casual, and she had cut him down for it with blazing eyes and a single word. He hadn't meant it the way it sounded, scrambled to explain himself, something about Anton-Babinski syndrome, Akinetopsia, but Clint and Kate had both ignored him until he took himself off to the couch and dragged Bruce into a spell of the research mumbles as soon as the man appeared. As more and more of the Avengers arrived and silently set themselves up nearby, sent Clint furtive and melancholy glances she only held him closer, curled over him like protective mother bird. 

_Bird..._

The childhood stories don’t' bother him, not much anyway. Sure, he'd have loved to have Clint share those parts of himself, _any_ part of himself in their quiet moments, and yes, it hurts to realize that what he'd thought was intimacy between them didn't even begin to scratch the surface, but there were things Kate said, things she hinted at that put his teeth on edge. 

She talks about Queens, and an identity Clint's taken that Phil hasn't heard about. 

She talks about saving him, references a fight. 

She talks about being Hawkeye, and that, _that_ just isn't right. 

There's only one Hawkeye, and it's not her. 

But Clint agrees, verifies what she says and goes one step further, gives up his own claim to the name right there in front of all of them. 

Kate goes white and Phil sees himself reflected in her face as her heart breaks.


	9. Chapter 9

Six days pass and Phil and the Avengers slowly go back to their day-to-day lives, returning to their work and their individual projects out of necessity if nothing else. For all intents and purposes Clint is left behind, and Phil finds himself more conflicted over the presence of Kate Bishop than he ever has about any other person in his life. The archer is miserable, mopey, and despondent - his hearing improving back to baseline but his sight unrecovered – and only the young woman he called Hawkeye seemed capable of drawing him out. 

Phil appreciates that – he does. He appreciates that she's there for him, that she does nothing in those six days except dedicate herself to taking care of Clint as much as he'll allow her. He's grateful, glad that someone is around to keep an eye on him when he and Natasha are called back in to SHIELD, when Tony and Bruce disappear into the labs and Thor is called back to Asgard and Steve is inexorably drawn back into his search for Bucky Barnes. 

Another part of him... 

Well, let's just say he's torn. 

Having come to certain... _conclusions_ in recent days, more than anything Phil wants to fix what's been broken, wants to hug Clint warmly and reassure him that everything will work out in the end. He wants him better – not only for Clint himself but for Phil's own good. He wants to be able to tell him, to confess, to admit his attraction, his bone-deep fondness, his love for the man he can't imagine his life without, and he wants to be able to do that without feeling guilty, without feeling like he's taking advantage of his having been buried alive and blinded in the process was the catalyst for this new need to cough up his heart, but not the root of the warm and tender feelings living inside his chest. 

Kate Bishop is in the way. 

For six days, six long, endless days Phil watches her orbit around Clint, watches her slip in between the Avengers and find her place among them as if she'd always been there. He watches her challenge Tony and make Natasha laugh, watches her be as brave and strong and clever and funny as the man she clearly looks up to as a mentor, a role model, a much beloved friend. He still isn't sure exactly what she is to Clint, and while he's beginning to doubt that they were ever as involved as Tony seems to think, it doesn't end his jealousy, just turns it into something else. 

He watches her settle in at Clint's side and cannot get any closer for the obstacle. 

To make things even more difficult to bear, Clint seems to be getting worse. With each passing day he becomes more morose, more sullen, more depressed, and really Phil can't blame him. He relies so heavily on his eyesight, takes such pride in the things he can do because of that remarkable sense – Phil can't imagine what he's going through. The fear, the anxiety – and knowing Clint, the shaken convictions, the lost sense of self-worth... 

It's a lot. 

In the face of all that, he supposes it's understandable that Clint begins to fall apart a little, even with Kate there to help. He stops showering, lazes around in the same clothes for days at a time, speaks less and less and starts refusing to wear his hearing aids. He still goes to the medical wing every morning, still endures all the tests and exams but won't go near the psych office, disappears into the vents with remarkable ease whenever the subject is brought up. Phil's nearly to the point of enlisting Stark's help to drag the man down there when Kate cuts ahead of him and threatens to kick the archer's ass into gear herself, though in a rather surprising way. 

"Clint!" she hollers, stepping into the kitchen where the Avengers have gathered for breakfast. "Take a shower – you stink!" 

For his part Clint doesn't even flinch, doesn't give any sign that he's startled by her sudden, extremely loud appearance. He's wearing a pair of sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt, his hair is lank and greasy, and he's staring blankly straight ahead the way he's taken to doing that puts a shiver down Phil's spine. 

"Do not," he mutters, and it's more to himself than anyone else, but it's more of a response than most of them are getting nowadays too. 

"Really?" she quips, hand on her hip as she walks past the table toward the fridge, staring at him the whole way. "That's really how you want to play this? What, you think I won't strip you down and hose you off again like that time we went to Aruba for a week?" 

"Please, like once wasn't traumatizing enough for both of us," he scoffs, even as Stark snickers and Phil's cheeks heat. 

"Did you eat?" she demands in response, and all the Avengers hunch in on themselves just a little. They've all noticed that the archer has started to drop some weight, lose some muscle mass, hasn't been eating or going to the gym the way he typically does. When he doesn't answer her, Kate turns to glare at him over her shoulder as she pulls two bowls down from the cabinets. 

"Nevermind, I'm getting the cereal down anyway." 

"Ugh, no thank you," Clint grimaces vehemently, and Phil arches an eyebrow. 

He's never known the man to turn down a bowl of cocoa puffs in his life. 

"Oh for god's sake Clint," Kate huffs, smacking the box down on the counter. "It was one time." 

"You're a monster," Clint mutters. 

"Um, did I miss something?" Stark asks, looking uncharacteristically confused, a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to his mouth. 

Phil can't help but echo the sentiment. 

"She puts the _milk_ in the bowl first!" Clint declares in horror, waving his arms suddenly and harshly in Kate's direction, and a beat of silence passes before half of them bleat with startled laughter. 

"Shut up," she grumbles good-naturedly, dropping a bowl down in front of the man and slapping his cheek fondly. "Eat, then shower – we're going on a field trip in a couple hours. Whine and I will destroy you." 

Clicking her fingers to call Lucky from beneath the table, she heads toward the elevators without a backwards glance, slurping up her own chocolatey cereal as she goes. 

Yes, Phil thinks as he watches her go, Kate Bishop is an enigma he doesn't think he'll ever figure out. He hates her and loves her in equal measures for what she's done, what she's still doing, and really he doesn't even know her. He's nervous knowing she intends to drag Clint out somewhere, and ecstatic that she'll be getting him out of the Tower, forcing him back into the barest shadow of the life he'd led before all this. She's a bit like Natasha, the way she's capable of quietly and effectively influencing the world around her – perhaps why the two of them get along so well – but is far more cheerful, more friendly and tactile and approachable than the red-headed Russian. He thinks that perhaps Kate Bishop is who Natasha Romanov might have been in another life – perhaps the reason why she and _Clint_ get along so well – and he wonders how he can ever compete with that, with the thoughtless touch, the simple give and take between them. 

It makes his heart ache, and he leaves the breakfast table without a word of farewell to anyone.

**AVAVA**

He's been silently attacking insurance paperwork in his office at SHIELD headquarters for three hours when Sitwell comes bursting in, no knock, no announcing himself, no nothing. He looks frazzled, edging on panic, his suit jacket askew and his forehead glistening with sweat as he comes up short in front of Phil's desk his chest heaving.

"Range," he pants, breath catching around the word as he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Now. Barton... and the girl. Coulson, they're drawing a crowd. Rivers... and Blake..." 

"Shit." 

Getting to his feet, Phil is out the door and up the hallway before Sitwell's even got his breathing back under control, his own heart abruptly hammering in his chest. 

"What the _hell_ is she thinking?" he snarls, jabbing at the elevator buttons. 

Rivers and Blake were two of SHIELD's Level Four specialists, snipers, and the only two who hadn't been won over by Clint's charm and easy going nature over the years. Jealousy and embarrassment had been building ever since Clint had rocketed past them in training, given all the best missions and all the best toys, and Phil doesn't doubt that they would take any chance they got to break the man they hated down. 

By the time he reaches the range a crowd has indeed formed on the observation deck overhead, faces pressed against the safety glass like Clint is some spectacle to be oggled. In truth he is – what the man can do with a bow and arrow is legendary and he often has spectators, but never have those onlookers worn expressions so smug, so disdainful, so malicious. Rivers and Blake are among them, and Phil fully intends to rip them both a new one, but instead of heading for the deck he goes bursting onto the range itself, stalking down the line toward the far end where Clint and Kate stand in Clint's specially designated lane. 

Seeing Clint's bow in her hands feels like taking an arrow to his own belly, fury hot and electric all over his body. 

He's going to kill her. 

As he marches toward them Natasha appears silently at his side and there's quiet murder written on her face as well, validating and reassuring. He sees Tony and Bruce on the deck above them, sees Steve trying to scold the crowd into dispersing, but as Kate lifts the bow in her hands it seems nothing will stop this train from wrecking, and he's never regretted trusting someone this much before in his life.

**AVAVA**

It's a good idea.

She knows it is. 

Could it backfire spectacularly – yes, could it set Clint back so much he'd never recover - quite possibly, but it won't. 

She has faith in that, has faith in _him._

So she takes him to the SHIELD range. 

It could have happened just as easily in the Tower, in the elaborate shooting suites Tony had built for him, but that would have defeated half the purpose of this little jaunt. The Avengers have been treating him with kid gloves, like he's vulnerable and made of glass, and Clint is starting to believe them even though he's not. 

She'll prove that to him even if it kills her. 

So. 

To SHIELD they go. 

Jarvis helps. He tells her where the keys to an impressive array of expensive cars are kept, though she only commandeers a simple black sedan (another time Bishop, another time), and then programs the GPS to take her exactly where she needs to go. He then hacks Clint's ID card to grant her access as well, directing her to the elevators and down the range without alerting the extensive security and multiple agents milling around. By the time they step onto the range Clint very clearly has recognized where they are, alerted by the pattern of twists and turns, the sounds and the feel of the floor, the distinctive smell of gunpowder. 

"Katie..." 

"Don't," she warns, against a hundred things, but he seems to accept them all and shuts up, though his shoulders are high and tight and he's looking a little green around the gills. 

Stepping up to the weapons cage, she smiles brightly at the grizzled older agent manning the counter and leans up on her tiptoes to peer into the back. 

"Hawkeye's bow please," she requests, not quailing in the slightest when the man looks her up and down, turns to Clint and flinches at the sight of his still, unfocused eyes. 

"Uh..." 

" 'Sall right Hutch," Clint says easily with a genial shrug. "Girl knows what she's doing, promise." 

The man appears startled, even more than he'd been by Clint's very apparent blindness, gulps hard once or twice like his mouth has gone dry before disappearing into the back and coming out with a beautiful custom recurve that Kate recognizes with a fond pang. He hands it across the counter with a quiet _'Barton'_ to alert him, then goes sickly white when Clint immediately hands it over to her. She understands, she does – she guards her own bow with the same zealous passion, a passion she learned from Clint himself. She hadn't lied to Steve Rogers when the Avengers had picked her up in front of Gotham archery – a Hawkeye's heart was their bow, and they didn't pass it around lightly. 

Still, she shoots the Weapon's Master a saucy wink just to keep herself from sobbing with the strength of the emotion she is still overwhelmed with every time Clint puts himself in her hands, grabs the quiver of arrows he's brought out from the counter, and drags the archer off down the aisle to the very last lane at the end, the one he'd so excitedly told her about so many years ago that SHIELD had built just for him. 

By the time they get there they're already starting to attract an audience but that's ok. 

That's the other part of this. 

You don't get to be as good as Clint is without inspiring a little hatred here and there. 

Drop a little blood in the water and the sharks aren't long to start circling. 

"Gonna do a little showing off Katie-Cat," Clint asks with a grin, only a little strained around the edges as he leans back against the loading table, his arms folded over his chest and his ankles crossed, the picture of nonchalance. Too anyone else it would be convincing, but she's a Hawkeye – she sees things better than most. She sees the anger, the hurt, the fear behind the mask. 

She also sees Agents Coulson and Romanov stalking across the range towards them. 

"No," she says, squaring up to the far end of the lane and knocking a single arrow, studying the five paper targets a hundred yards off. "You are." 

"Kate..." 

"Aw, come're Hawkeye," she interrupts in a gently teasing tone. "What's the matter? Scared?" 

"Yes." 

That word, that one word. God, it killed her. So boldly admitted, so open, such a flat statement of fact colored with so much painful emotion... 

It almost closes up her throat. 

The rest is very nearly accomplished by the arrival of the two people who mean the most to Clint, who compete with her for his full trust and affection and who could take her apart and disappear the pieces without breaking a sweat. 

"But not of me," she says firmly, because it will goad him and because it will stave off her impending doom for just a few minutes, because she couldn't refuse and because in her own heart she needed to hear the answer, now that things were different. 

"No," he said quietly, and then he takes a tentative step forward, slips in close behind her with his hand out, questing, until his fingertips find her shoulders for guidance. He wraps his arm around her body slowly, mimics her pose as she pulls back his bow and covers her hands with his own. "Never you." 

Swallowing hard, muscles straining against his impressive draw., Kate squeezes her eyes shut until she's sure her fingers won't shake. 

"All right then." 

Five targets. 

Letting out a long, slow breath, she takes slow, careful aim at each in turn. 

"Feel that?" she murmurs, her surrogate brother, her mentor, her friend a long line of heat and muscle at her back. "One, two, three, four, five. Got it?" 

Clint hums noncommittally and Kate rolls her eyes, tries not to smile as she takes aim at each target a second time. 

"Yeah, you got it." 

Carefully releasing the tension on the string, Kate transfers the bow fully into Clint's hands and steps out of the circle of his arms. She keeps a careful ten feet between her and Natasha, though she isn't naïve enough to think that it will save her. Anyway, the look on Coulson's face promises a far more painful demise. Only Clint's harsh, rapid breathing sounds in the small space around them, the range falling silent as dozens of agents watch and wait. 

And he tries. 

She's proud of him for that, if nothing else. 

He gets the arrow pulled halfway back – one, two, three times before his shoulders slump, his arms shaking but his hands steady and he lets out a long, high-pitched whine that does it's best to break her heart. 

"Katie, I can't..." 

"What's wrong?" she asks, the words clear despite feeling like razor blades in her throat. "Don't trust me?" 

"It's not your eyes I can't trust right now Katie." 

"Fine." 

It's huffy, annoyed, and catches Clint's attention enough that his head snaps up, his mouth curling into a frown. He tilts his head when she takes a purple bandana from her pocket and snaps it open smartly, folds it quickly into a blindfold, and she can feel the surprise coming from every damn onlooker in the room when he lets her wrap it around his eyes without a flinch or a protest. 

_"Nothing_ has changed Clint," she growls in his ear, tugging the ends tight. "This range is the same as it's been that last ten hundred times you've been down here, those targets haven't moved from where they've been. I've seen your show - did you forget who you are?" 

Stepping back one more time, she allows herself just a moment to remember, to see the skinny young teenager Clint used to be; underfed, bruised and beaten down but still defiant, clothed in purple and glittering under the circus lights. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," she whispers hoarsely, just loud enough for her voice to carry, "Boys and girls. Step right up and witness an act like you've never seen before. He never misses – only ten cents to see the one, the only, the World's Greatest Marksman, the Amazing Hawkeye!" 

A shiver wracks Clint's entire body and he turns his head toward the targets, his hands tightening their grip. 

"Nothing's changed," she reminds him again, pride swelling in her chest as she sees his jaw firm up, sees the determination settle across his shoulders. "You were shooting blind before I could _walk_ Clint. You _made_ the name Hawkeye, now _own it!"_

The arrow is leased and down the lane before she even has time to take another breath, burying itself dead center in the middle of the first target, and all around them a stunned silence falls. Grinning like a idiot, she picks up Clint's quiver and steps in close to his side, strapping it to his hip where he can easily reach it. Leaning up on her tiptoes, she presses a soft kiss to his cheek and whispers in his ear, her voice sharp and bright with pride and admiration. 

"Bullseye."


End file.
